


Boiling in my Veins

by baisley



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Berserker AU, Blood and Violence, Dark Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Dubious Morality, Hiccup is a Berserker, Illustrations, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Possibly Sporadic Updates, Pre-Canon, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Trans Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Trans Male Character, additional warnings in chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 18:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21281546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baisley/pseuds/baisley
Summary: Empires were built and ruled by monstrous men, underneath the illusion of peace was a mountain of blood and bone.Hiccup will tear its foundations and expose the Archipelago's darkest secrets.Whatever it takes.
Relationships: Dagur the Deranged & Heather, Dagur the Deranged/Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Heather/Astrid Hofferson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmm, yeah, this happened. Dagcup had pulled me in and my first contribution, fanficion wise, is this dark and messed up AU.  
Yup this came about from one of my drawings, and shit escalated and now you're reading.
> 
> Warnings will be written for each chapter, and if there isn't one, then you can breathe a sigh of relief. 
> 
> So enjoy this, or not, you'd still have to read it to make an opinion lol, and check out my tumblr or twitter @ baisleyarts for art, news etc. 
> 
> (btw thanks for those who were rooting and waiting for this fic. It's _here_ and my lazy ass actually did it.)

* * *

**Warnings:**

**[ Dark Themes, Child Neglect, Attempted Infanticide, Attempted Suicide]**

* * *

Grief.

Perhaps the deadliest feeling of all; it made monsters of men in the disastrous of ways. Stoick the Vast felt incomprehensible grief, it consumed him like a dragon to a flock of sheep. The death of his beloved Valka, taken by the claws of a Stormcutter, fed his ever-grieving heart. The wound was still fresh and bleeding, some days he wanted to stand still in front of the dragon fire and some days he just wanted to fall to his knees and curse the gods. He wanted to scream ‘_why?’_ _Why?_

Why do they take, take and take from his life, and leave him with nothing but scraps? Why take his wife? Why has Odin forsaken him while his wife feasts in the golden halls of Valhalla?

Why has he been left alone with a child, so weak and frail?

Barely fitting in his palm, with breaths so soft and without strength; his child was a runt. Too young to have been separated from its mother, too young to live without her. Even the babe would cry, as if to grieve for its mother, missing her touch, her voice, her warmth, just as Stoick does.

Every dragon raid, he would bring his axe down to every dragon with grief and fury. But even then, it wasn’t enough. Not enough to lighten the weight in his heart. When he trudged home, he would be greeted by the cries of his child, the nursemaid, frazzled and eager to be away from the sickly thing. _It won’t last the winter_, she would say, _it’s too weak and small._ He knew that by the gods does he know. It was by their will that his child would be everything he’s not.

Small, while he takes after his title of ‘vast’. Weak, while he could hurl a boulder straight to a Nadder’s head. Sickly, while he had never faced illness.

Born a girl in a world full of monsters and men.

Valka had known there was something wrong when she had not felt the baby move in her womb. Her concerns led Stoick to seek the counsel of a Seer. He sailed to the northern markets, where they told him to follow the path in the woods, and to an isolated hut. There he met the Seer. Where his eyes should have been was nothing but empty sockets, hidden by the shadow of his black, hooded cloak. His lips were coated with a smear of khol and when they pulled back to grin, he showed yellow and black- stained teeth. There were only twelve.

“A guest? Nay… Naught but another soul, seeking for a word of his future,” the old man rasped, sitting on a chair by the hearth. He clung to a staff made of gnarled wood and hanging bones. They rattled when he moved. “Sit down.”

Stoick sat on an empty chair that faced the eyeless Seer, taking off his helmet. The chair creaked under his weight, and the Seer held out a wrinkled hand. The Berkian chief, forewarned of the Seer’s form of payment, rummaged in his pouch and pulled a sparrow. It chirped as soon as it saw the light, but once it was placed in the palm of the Seer’s hand, it fell silent.

“Tell me your name.”

The Seer had rolled the bird in his hand and lifted it to breathe in its smell. Stoick didn’t hide his grimace and cleared his throat. “I am Stoick the Vast, chief of Berk and clan Haddock. I want to know what is wrong with the child in my wife’s womb, its future- what will happen to it and how it will serve my tribe-”

The Seer hissed sharply, whipping a hand to silence him. “You ask too many questions! Just like the rest!” He kept rolling the still silent bird in his other hand. “They will only be answered if the gods allow it. Do not test their patience as you do mine.”

Stoick shut his mouth with a clack of teeth. “Sorry.”

The Seer hummed and leaned back to his chair. The chief let him have his silence for a moment, and his patience was rewarded as the Seer spoke in his rasping voice.

“It is a large burden to one who has yet to take its first breath. But there is nothing wrong with your child, no. He will be born amidst fire and blood, and as the gods after Ragnarok, he will be reborn, amongst the same elements. Yes… He will lead armies and slay the monsters that roam and terrorize the lands of Midgard. The gods have promised your son greatness and glory. He will do many great things. Terrible, yet great, indeed.”

“A son,” he breathed, a grin touching his lips from behind his red beard. “Destined for greatness and blessed by the gods!”

Stoick stood from his seat, heart light with joy at the news from the Seer. He didn’t doubt the words from the Seer as he was an interpreter of the gods, they speak through him and they had never let down their faithful Vikings. He had left to sail back to Berk and tell the good news. Had he stayed a while longer or turned his back, he would have seen the Seer grin wickedly and put the head of the sparrow between his teeth, and _bite._

It was damning for one to say a Seer had lied to them, to say that is to accuse the gods of lying to them too. Yet, there he was, a widow and holding a daughter instead of the famed son he was promised. He wondered what he could have possibly done to anger the gods for them to punish him like this. Had he not prayed and celebrated in their name?

As he sat by the fire in his home, those questions plagued him, chasing away the silence and seducing him further in his grief, he heard the child begin to fuss from upstairs. He stilled and waited, staring blankly at the fire until the babe had begun to wail when nobody had come. It was with heavy steps and a far-away look that Stoick climbed the stairs and found himself staring at the cot where the child laid and cried.

He felt like he was away from his own body. Watching him watch the child. Just a spectator that watched the babe turn a deeper shade of red as it cried without stopping. He reached out and carried the child in his arm; it was so small that he needed only one hand to carry it. He rocked the small thing until its cries died down, and Stoick watched the babe be lulled back to sleep, tears drying from red cheeks that he didn’t wipe away.

In the dark room, the mighty chief of Berk felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even with the child with him, he felt small and alone. _‘Why you?_’ Stoick thought. ‘_Why did you live?_’ He couldn’t find himself to feel remorseful for such a cruel thought. It was as if he was stripped of all feeling as he held the living proof of the gods’ punishment done unto him.

Stoick walked down the stairs of his home and threw his fur cloak around his shoulders, the babe still asleep in his arm. He walked out of the warmth of his home and into the quiet and cold night. Few homes were lit by the fireplace, so late was the night. The mead hall held a dim glow of light escaping from a small crack of the doors, holding a warm shelter for the drunks of the night.

The large Viking tucked the child under his cloak and walked the pathway down towards the docks. The cold bit his skin more harshly from the winds that moved the sea in lazy waves. It was a cold that Berkians likened to a pleasant breeze with how used to the long winters they were. The sea reflected the whole of the moon, keeping still and taking a short respite from its wolf chaser.

Something that the gods seemed to refuse to give him. Some respite. A moment of relief. Have the gods truly forsaken him?

He pulled the babe from his cloak, sleeping peacefully as Stoick stared at it with cold, dead eyes. No matter how hard he tried to find it, he found no love for it, not in that moment. If it had not been born, his wife would still be alive. She wouldn’t have lost the strength from childbirth to fight the dragon that had taken her and….

The child wouldn’t live to be named- the whole village knew. It won’t survive the long winter. If its weak body wouldn’t be the end of it, then it might just be sickness, the merciless winters of berk, or even just a gust of wind. By law, the child was not a Hooligan, not a villager of Berk, a nameless being unless it fought to live for its name. His wife had loved the child, and for a while, Stoick did too. But all that love was taken away from him the day Valka was taken. Taken by a dragon, ripped apart piece by piece, and stewing for all eternity in the belly of the devilish beast.

_“Look at her Stoick. What a beautiful thing…”_

On the night of the moon, before the eyes of the moon god, Mani, Stoick placed the child on a crate of furs on a small boat. He took one last look at the child before he carefully placed the lid over the crate.

_“She’ll be a strong little warrior. She’ll have men dropping to their knees…_” 

_“She’ll-... She’ll be the strongest of them all. Aye, that much is true.”_

He remembered those words he spoke to her, so caught in the moment. Perhaps it was the last shred of hope he had, leaving past his lips, for the promised future that had fallen to ruins when the child had been born. Stoick watched as the boat he had released, rock to the sea, and be pulled to the moon. He kept his eyes to the boat and _prayed_.

“I offer this child to the gods. I offer this sacrifice to lift this curse upon me. That I may be cleansed of my transgressions, the transgressions that have angered you. Let this sacrifice please you, and that you may shed the chains that tie me to grief. That this may bring my-…. My wife to the golden halls of Valhalla. That she drinks mead in abundance in the dining halls of Odin.”

When he finished his prayer, Stoick let out a stuttering breath. He faltered in his steps, as if his legs have lost strength, but he caught himself. Still, he watched the boat float away, for minutes or hours, he didn’t know, and when it disappeared into the horizon, he turned to make the trek back to the village.

A booming sound came from the distance, then a mighty roar. Stoick’s shoulders straightened and his head perked up, a moment of clarity in his hazy mind. A glow in the distance and the shouts of the villagers had him running to the commotion. When he arrived at the scene, he was met with pandemonium.

Villagers ran around with buckets of water and throwing it to the flames that ate away his home. A dead dragon, a Monstrous Nightmare, was sprawled just a few metres away from his home. No doubt it was the one responsible for the fire. Its head was cut from its long, serpentine neck, blood still oozing from its freshly killed body. A quick kill to keep it from burning the newly re-built homes of the villagers. A crowd of Vikings stood around the blood-soaked figure of Finn Hofferson, raising the head of the beast like a prize. They all cheered for him, patted his back, but the jovial atmosphere dimmed when Stoick trudged into their view, staring at the still roaring fire that lit the night.

“Stoick! Stoick!” A familiar voice cut through the sombre atmosphere. He turned to find Gobber, his face was ridden with sorrow as he carefully held out a charred toy. Despite the blackened patches, Stoick recognized the stuffed dragon that his wife had made for… for… “It-…It was all that I could find. The cradle was nothing but ashes when I went in to try and get her…”

Stoick took the toy with shaking hands. His tongue felt dry and he could hear the pulsing of blood in his veins. A ringing sound muffled the alarmed voices and footsteps as he fell to his knees, clutching the still-warm toy in his hand. Ragged breaths escaped him as he felt his heart ache, as if the hand of Odin himself had reached down to squeeze his beating organ. He could barely hear the sound of Gobber’s voice saying, “I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, Stoick.”

But Stoick didn’t feel the sadness or grief. No. As he kneeled in front of his burning home, cradling what was left of a life that could have been, Stoick felt only relief.

<<<>>> 

That fateful night, a bolt of lightning speared the sky. The almighty Thor had struck his anvil so viciously that the lightning had nearly split the heavens. The thunder that sounded did not resemble that of the rolling chariot that his goat steeds pulled. No. It was the sound of a roar, a roar that had nearly deafened all who heard it. It was a roar that had struck fear into the hearts of men, terrified by the wrath of Thor, the god of thunder and lightning. For surely, something had angered him so terribly that the sky had nearly split into two and the earth shook from the sound of his rage.

Though, as with every strike of anger, the sky god wept, and his tears made the rain fall to the realm of Midgard.

For three days, Thor struck Mjölnir to his anvil, and for three days, he wept without rest. The son of Odin wept for the child sent adrift at sea, whose cries could not be heard over the crashing waves of the relentless ocean nor the roaring thunder. He wept for the child sent to die. 

<<<>>> 

The storm came to an end on the day of the goddess queen, Frigg. On her day, the clouds parted for the shining sun and the only evidence of the storm was the muddy earth that encircled puddles. The farm animals were taken from their shelters to bask in the sun, as with the Vikings of the archipelago that have been cooped inside their homes for the whole of three days.

On the edge of Berserker Island, a woman wandered out from the forest. The woman was young, with hair like liquid fire cascading down her back, loose and dancing with the warm breeze. Her eyes mimicked the colour of the bright sky Frigg’s day has been blessed with. She walked in a daze, bare feet gliding on the grass that blanketed the cliffside. The rocky shores of the isle were below her and as she stood at the edge of the cliff, the jutting rocks greeted her alongside the foaming waves of the sea.

She gave a shuddering breath as a gust of wind flew past her. Her eyes were hollow and encircled with dark rings from sleepless nights. Days of relentless grief had dried the tears from her eyes. While Thor had cried for three days of the storm, so too did she, for she had suffered the most unparalleled tragedy, and her heart was the price of punishment. To be chained by grief that she lived while her babe is lost and dead. She refused to suffer such fate.

She closed her eyes, toed the edge of the cliff and prepared to die.

But a distant cry was carried by the wind and was received by her ears. She halted, eyes snapped open and a moment of clarity for she was sure to have heard the tell-tale cry of a babe. Perhaps it was the cry of her lost child, come to call her into Valhalla.

Another cry cut over the crash of waves and this time it didn’t stop. The woman stumbled back, in her moment of shock and fell to her rump. Her heart hammered in her chest and her head swivelled to find the source of the cries. Blue eyes found a wooden boat on the shore, turned on its side, and quite a distance from the waters. The low tide must have stranded it when she had stood on the edge of the cliff for who knows how long.

She scrambled to her feet and hiked up her skirts before she ran down to the shore. She didn’t care for the rocks that dug at the soles of her feet, the now unmistakable cries of a baby tugged at her heart and sparked a desperate need to sooth the painful wails and hurt those cries told her.

The boat was a wreck. The wood was splintered, bits and pieces littering the rocks, and its nose, carved to resemble the head of a dragon, was broken from the boat. The blue-eyed woman hardly cared for where the boat came from, her eyes were set on the upturned crate where the cries came from a few feet away.

She fell to her knees in front of the crate. Shaking hands turned over the crate, damp fur pelts spilt from it and over a squirming mass. She removed the pelt and uttered a soft gasp. A baby, filthy, bruised and skinny. So frightfully skinny. The fur that was wrapped around the child stank of something foul, it was bruised but nothing was broken. The poor thing was wailing but no tears came from its eyes.

The woman carefully picked up the crying child and paused. On the wrap that held together the fur blanket around the child held a very familiar crest. The shape of a Monstrous Nightmare, tail curled underneath its chin, was carved on a small circle of steel, the size of her palm. The red-haired woman walked to the water, eyes engrossed on the little charm. Her dress was soaked as she walked until the water was to her thighs.

“Hush now, poor thing,” she cooed, stripping the babe. She tucked the crest in one of her pouches hanging from her belt and began to wash the babe- a _girl_, a beautiful girl, just like-….

The babe had calmed as she washed days of filth and grime with gentle hands. She rubbed her small head. Everything about her was small. A runt. Sent to die a slow death in the dangerous sea for gods knows how long. Where Thor’s hammer struck his anvil as he wept for three days, and the coils of the world serpent, Jörmungand, writhed and disturbed the sea in response to his enemy’s grief.

The woman pressed the babe to her breasts and whispered, “To have endured such suffering for one so young, you have been saved, you are favoured and blessed by the gods. And, in turn, so too have I. You are the gods’ gift to me. On Frigg’s day…I will remember this day, when the Lady Mother has sent you to me as a sign that I shall not lose hope in motherhood, in myself. Thank you. _Thank you_.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips on the baby girl’s brow. 

<<<>>> 

When Dagmar the Sharp came to her husband with a naked babe in her arm and declared it a gift from Frigg, he was shocked, to say the least. A curved horn full of mead halfway to his mouth. He listened to her tale and felt his heart reach out to the abandoned child.

And when she said that they will take in the child and raise her as their own, staying true to his name, Osvald the Agreeable, _agreed._

<<<>>> 

Miles away, on the shores of Berk, Stoick the Vast found a baby girl who had been adrift at sea. Moved by her strength to survive so long at sea he took her in. His heart tightened just for a fraction when his thoughts tried to remind him what he had lost… what he had done. But he had buried it down just as quickly. Buried so deeply that Stoick would convince himself of his innocence for years to come.

But in the end, secrets never truly stay secret, and the past never truly comes to rest. They always find a way to come back and haunt those who try to run away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I do not condone any of the sensitive themes in this fic, especially suicidal ideations, I'm just here to write fanfic. But if you know someone, or you yourself, suffer from it, I implore you to seek help, talk to somebody, or call the suicide hotline (it varies in countries) for unbiased professional help. You are worthy of life and comfort, and you, most of all, are worthy of love.❤️
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks. I have no claim nor ownership in any of their beautiful characters, this is purely for the enjoyment of myself and (hopefully) others. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
_  
This work is un-beta'd, any mistakes concerning spelling, grammar etc. are completely my fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Art!

* * *

**Warnings:**

**[ **Mild Swearing, Animal Sacrifice, Underage Drinking ]****

* * *

“_Ouch!_”

Little Hiccup flinched back from the fingers that held a dollop of salve to the cut on his temple.

“Don’t be a baby!” Dagur said, a scowl on his face. “It’s your fault this happened, anyway. Why did you have to go after Ansson of all people? Ansson the Abominable! He isn’t called that for nothing, you know.” He held the back of Hiccup’s neck with his other hand and reached out with the salve again.

Unable to fight against his brother’s stronger grip, Hiccup braced for the sting of the salve. He hissed in pain when the cold paste touched the wound, tears easily prickling in his eyes. “He was the one who threw the rock first.”

“Yeah, after you called him Ansson the Asshole.” He poked his salve coated finger on Hiccup’s forehead and went back to rub the wound.

“So? He called you and me names too,” grumbled Hiccup. “And he took that thing dad gave you. I saw it in his hand, and I tried to get it back. Dad won’t be happy that you lost it to _Ansson_.”

Dagur’s face turned red and Hiccup heard him gritting his teeth. He was one of the few who was unfazed by Dagur’s anger, he grew up with it and his older brother never turned his short-fused anger to Hiccup. That’s why he didn’t jump when Dagur kicked the stool he was sitting on and stabbed the dagger he kept with him on the table that held the jar of salves and bowl of clean water.

“Dad won’t know, not unless you shut up and don’t bring it up to him.”

Hiccup glared at him, looking insulted. “I’m not a tattletale!”

Dagur visibly calmed, face returning to its pale colour, and he gave Hiccup a smirk. He ruffled Hiccup’s hair, much to the younger boy’s irritation. “Of course, you’re not.” Hiccup smiled from underneath his messed hair. “How’d he even managed to land a hit on you? I thought you were as slippery as they come.”

Hiccup’s mood instantly soured. “It’s this stupid dress. I tripped on it.” His fist bunched the skirt of said dress. The hem reached his ankles and had slowed him down. He stumbled and Ansson had caught up enough to get a grip of his hair and take the beating of his life. He had to chop away some of his hair to get free, what once was a long mass of hair was now a choppy, matted rat’s nest caked in dried mud. It was still too long for his liking.

“Then why don’t you stop? You keep saying you hate it, but you keep wearing it. So what’s the big deal?” Dagur scoffed, pulling his blade back from the table.

The younger of the two brought his shoulders to his ears, his brows met, and a frown twisted at his lips. Dagur righted the stool with his foot and rose an expectant brow at the smaller child.

“It makes mom happy,” he muttered.

Dagur paused from putting away the jars. He eyed the conflicted emotions that ran through Hiccup’s face and sighed. “Well, you better come up with something, because she really isn’t gonna be happy with this.” He rapped his knuckles on Hiccup’s forehead, near the wound.

Irritated, Hiccup smacked the offending limb and lunged at the older red head with a yell. Dagur, surprised by the unexpected attack, was jolted and fell to the floor when the darn stool tripped him. Still, Dagur was quick to gain the upper hand in the small wrestling match. His arms and legs wrapped around the smaller child, successfully keeping Hiccup from escaping.

“Let go, stupid!”

“Ha! You started it, brother!” Dagur’s grip was unbreakable, no matter how hard Hiccup struggled. Or he was just too weak compared to the older boy.

“_Dagur_, is that you upstairs?”

The two paused and perked at their mother’s voice. Hiccup made to yell but Dagur’s hand covered his mouth. “Yeah, mom?”

The momentary ease of Dagur’s grip was enough for Hiccup to free an arm and jab his elbow to his side. Dagur wheezed, releasing Hiccup, who scrambled out of his brother’s hold. There was a pause, and then, “Dagur leave your sister alone and get down here!”

Hiccup silently scowled.

Both boys scrambled to their feet. Dagur growled when Hiccup poked his tongue out as they both trudged down the stairs.

Their mother’s back was to them, setting up a yak thigh to cook and other ingredients. Her bright red hair that Dagur inherited was bound in a long and intricate braid, it nearly touched her thighs. She was plump, having the curves that beguiled many Vikings. But Hiccup knew that underneath all that was a woman who could lift a grown Viking man over her head. If that wasn’t enough proof of her strength, the yak leg that she must have carried home all the way from the butchers across the village was larger than her head.

Dagmar wiped her hands on her apron and turned, a chore to deliver on her lips before her eyes widened at the sight of Hiccup’s scruffy and scratched appearance.

“Oh, Freya have mercy! Hiccup what happened?” She was quick to come down on him, fussing and turning his face here and there, sucking a breath at the cut on his temple. “Dagur, did you do this? I told you not to wrestle with your sister! Oh, your hair- your dress!” Hiccup hunched his shoulders and glowered at his feet.

“It wasn’t me!” Dagur cried. “It was-…”

“Me,” Hiccup interrupted, cutting his brother a quick look. “It was me. I-…I tripped and hit my head on a tree.”

Dagmar stared at him and then rose a brow. “This tree… wouldn’t have happened to be responsible for this would it?” She had reached behind him to bring the noticeably short and crudely chopped hair in front of them. Hiccup cringed and stammered for an excuse, but his mother was having none of it.

She turned to her eldest. “Dagur, feed the chickens and milk the goats, will you? Grab the big pail- _without_ all the ruckus, please,” she said sharply when Dagur was about to go about one of his fits.

He huffed irritably and glared at Hiccup, a glare that told him to ‘get on with it’, before grabbing one of the wider pails. Hiccup knew that would take him most of the day, what with the goats seeming to want to ram him any chance they get.

“And you, go upstairs, in front of the mirror. I’ll find some scissors and fix you up.” His mother shooed him with a sigh, and Hiccup made the trek upstairs. He dragged a stool and sat in front of the polished metal in the corner of the room. There, he stared at his reflection. A freckled face that showed his unflattering glower underneath a nest of choppy brown hair.

His mother came up with a basin of water perched on her hip and a pair of scissors and a comb on the other hand. Hiccup knew he was going to have the most tedious haircut of his life. She caught his look and said, “Now, don’t give me that face. If you don’t like it so much, then you wouldn’t have gone and start hitting your head on trees.” Hiccup didn’t doubt that she already saw through his lie and was just adding on to his guilt of lying to her. She knew that he especially didn’t like lying to her and that he’d spill the truth some time later.

“I was trying to get back something someone stole.” Or perhaps some time now.

“And that didn’t end well for you,” she said pointedly. She grabbed the other stool and sat behind him, the basin in her lap.

“No,” he grumbled as he was ushered with gentle hands to lean back until the back of his head was resting inside the basin, he laid his arms on her lap to keep himself steady. He felt her begin to wash his hair and rid it of the dried mud. “He was the one who picked up a rock. I would’ve gotten away.” _If I didn’t wear this stupid dress_, he finished in his head.

“A boy? Hiccup you know better than to go against the older boys,” his mother admonished. He knew she was talking about how all of the young boys were Dagur’s age or older, all taller and stronger than him, but it just served to irritate Hiccup and remind him of what his mother doesn’t _know_.

“I could take them on.” His mother tugged at his hair.

“You _shouldn’t_ be taking them on, and you shouldn’t be dirtying yourself today of all days. It’s the _Álfablót _tonight, did you forget?” He did forget, but he pursed his lips. He sat up upon her ushering and Dagmar rung his hair to rid it of the water. “Oh, your poor hair. A small trim would do fine to keep its length, I suppose.”

She grabbed the comb and began to run it through his hair before she continued with her prattling. “We ladies have much to do for tonight, much to prepare for. We have to feed the hungry louts of the village right after the rituals or there’ll just be chaos all around. It’s a good thing I kept a spare dress for you, you’ll have to make sure not to dirty it-”

“I don’t-…” Hiccup sighed. Dagmar stopped, comb catching a knot, and waited for him. “I don’t want to wear a dress.”

“It’s customary, Hiccup. White tunics for the men and dresses for the women. We wouldn’t want to anger the elves and gods by straying from customs,” she said. “Besides, it’s only for a night-”

“No, I meant I’m not a girl, or a lady, or a woman. I’m-… I’m a boy.” Hiccup hunched his shoulders, face twisted into a frown with his nose scrunched and brows pulled together. “I’m a _boy,_” he said it quietly, refusing to look at her, nor her reflection.

It was silent for a moment, before he felt the familiar tug of a comb running through his hair. He dared to peek at the polished metal that reflected their image. His mother’s face held a calmness that Hiccup was familiar with; Dagur often pointed out that Hiccup acquired the same expression when he was in deep thought. His heart quickened in pace and he opened his mouth to say something to fill the silence.

“When you were a babe, I found you on this island’s shores, underneath a crate of fur pelts,” she said softly. Hiccup knew the story like the back of his hand, but he chose to hold his tongue. “Before you were gifted to me, a storm had plagued the Archipelago for three days and nights. The sparks from Thor’s hammer beating the anvil nearly split the skies of Midgard. Thunder roared unlike we have never heard before, and the rain fell from the sky god’s eyes, his heart struck with unfathomable grief.”

Even though the story had been told to him hundreds of times, his mother told the tale in a way that mesmerized him and took hold of his attention with a firm grip. She ran her fingers through his hair in a soothing manner, followed by the teeth of the comb.

“The storm disappeared on the day of the Lady Frigg. The mother of all had come to comfort her husband’s son and her light touched the realm once more, warming the earth and promising brighter days. On that day, I was given the most wonderful gift by the Lady herself, a generosity that brought me to tears. She is all-giving, my Hiccup. Like all gods, she rewards the faithful and, in their time of need, she soothes all grief.” His mother’s voice was soft and distant as if she was taken back to that day. Her hands ran through his hair, not a knot stopping the long fingers from running the length of his brown locks.

He felt her hands on his shoulders and squeezed, making him look into her reflection’s eyes. Hiccup felt his breath stutter and hold.

“I dare not claim to be able to decipher the mysterious ways of the gods, it’s not our place to ask why they do the things they do. We only accept and receive. Accept punishment that we are due, and receive the gifts given with open arms.” Her hand reached out to caress his cheek. “You are a blessed gift, Hiccup, one I have received wholeheartedly, and I shall receive you again… as my son.” She kissed his head and Hiccup felt his breath leave him.

His mother took the pair of scissors and smiled at him. “Now, let’s fix this hair of yours for tonight. All this long hair must feel heavy on your head, it’ll be best to keep it short from now on.”

She brought the pair to cut away at the long strands. Hiccup watched the first length of hair fall to the floor, and then another. His heart calmed and when he looked at his reflection, his face sported a wide smile.

<<<>>> 

The mead hall sat outside the village on a small hill, just in front of the tree line that held the forest. There, the villagers gathered to partake in the rituals of _Álfablót_. The tribe stood in front of a large bonfire outside the hall and faced a small platform where the chief, Osvald, stood behind an altar.

The night was clear and cool. The crackle of the bonfire was loudest amongst the shuffles and mutterings of the villagers.

Hiccup stood between his mother and brother, hair now pleasantly short and he donned a white tunic that had previously belonged to Dagur. All of the villagers were dressed in their white tunics and dresses, free of stains and imperfections, as was expected for the occasion.

The night marked his third time of participating in the Álfablót, which was also the first blót he ever participated in. His mother had not allowed him to go until he was five. She thought it might be too much for him to handle, that he might grow to have nightmares. But his father had insisted, said that he was a Berserker and that he was more mature than the other children. He was smug to have heard that, for some children weren’t allowed to participate until they were ten by their parents for fear of the same reasons as his mother’s. Dagur hadn’t been allowed to join the blóts until he was eight.

The young and naïve thing he was, Hiccup hadn’t a clue of what occurred in the blóts the first time he was allowed to participate. His mother had taught him the significance of the rituals, how it appeased the gods, yet she never did go into detail about the rituals itself. Hiccup had seen it with his own eyes.

His mother told him not to cry and to _never_ look away, for that insulted the gods and bring about their anger to the tribe. So, Hiccup forced himself to witness the rituals that all Berserkers partook, frightened of the thought of the wrath of the gods. From then on, Hiccup understood why his mother had always been hesitant to bring him, for there was one thing all the blóts had in common… A sacrifice.

The Álfablót was a sacrifice to the elves, when all was harvested, and the bellies of animals were thick with fat. It was a celebration of a bountiful harvest and of their ancestors, of the Berserkers who ploughed the very same soil that sprouted their crops. The fattest goat would be chosen to be sacrificed, many villagers were eager to put forward their goat (primped and fattened for months for that very reason), believing that they would be blessed. The sacrifice was made for the hope that the harvest would feed the tribe through the winter and provide them with another year of plentiful crops.

His mother had engrained all of the importance of each ritual in Hiccup’s mind until he could recite it to her from the top of his head. Though a hidden part of him regretted insisting on joining the blóts now that he had experienced one, for when the dagger had slammed right into the heart of the goat, Hiccup’s own heart seized in his chest. He had wanted to look away and hide his face in his mother’s skirts, but he felt her hand clamp tightly on the back of his neck. Still, he did not shed a tear, nor did he look away.

Now, as the chosen goat was tugged by a rope, Hiccup didn’t feel the fearful anticipation he once had when he was younger, but he felt the calm rhythm of a seven-year old’s heart who had witnessed many sacrifices in his short life. He hardened his heart from the thought of its death, and instead thought of the good fortune it would bring to the Berserker tribe. It was brought to the altar, all four legs bound, and placed on its side. His father gave a single loud clap of his hands and raised it skyward, grabbing the crowds’ attention.

“Another year, another harvest, my fellow Berserkers! The Álfablót is upon us at last!” Cheers came from the crowds, an uproarious symphony of howls, boots stomping and applause. The cheers quieted when his father spoke again, but the steady stomping stayed like a drum. Hiccup would feel the earth shake beneath his feet and he too began to stomp his foot. “Tonight, we give thanks to the elves of the earth, whose benevolence brought us crops a plenty. A sign that last year’s sacrifice had brought them great satisfaction. Let us partake in tonight rituals with reverence as we always have for many generations, and, afterwards, we shall feast in honour of the Berserkers that have cultivated these lands and have passed on their knowledge to us. Bring the sacrifice!”

Osvald stood back and the tribe’s priest stepped forward. He too was garbed in white, in the form of a long robe. His head was free of hair and it instead sported painted runes that encircled his sides, leaving the top of his head bare. Not much was known of the priest, for he lived in the outskirts of the village, deep in the woods, only ever appearing in blóts and occasional ceremonies. Though, Hiccup does know that the priest was also known for another name. Hiccup heard some of the tribe folk refer to him as a ‘wiseman’ for they say that he was almost as wise as the _Alfaðir_ himself. Berserkers went to him seeking him as a mediator for disputes, a lawman, or someone to seek advice to. His mother warned against him seeking the priest out whenever he wondered about him. When he asked why, she would always answer with a frustrating ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older’. Hiccup was always unsatisfied, but acquiesced, so he had never ventured to the thick woods that housed the mysterious man.

The priest held out his hands, palms to the sky and carrying the sacrificial dagger. Hiccup had only ever seen it in the hands of the priest, where it would appear in one blót and disappear until the next. If he were to be honest, Hiccup would say that the dagger was plain looking; he could find at least fifty of its kind hanging on the walls of the smithy. Though one thing that stood out was the large sunstone on the pommel. With the giant bonfire behind it, the rare gem looked to have captured whatever light touched it and turned it into a swirling vortex within its confines. If there was one thing to admire about the common dagger, it was that sunstone.

Hiccup felt his mother rest her hand on his shoulder, and he glanced at her, but her eyes were resolutely fixed on the ritual. The priest began to chant, voice deep and old. In his chant, he spoke with the power of runes. In _Jera _and _Mannaz, _he spoke of the harvest, and the reward for those hard at work. In _Dagaz,_ _Ingwaz_ and _Sowilo_, the hope for fertile lands and warmer days.

His mother had taught him the importance of runes at a young age. Their meanings, their bright sides and their dark. She had taught him to never overlook the significance of runes, and to never treat them with carelessness, for all runes can be reversed. For every _Jera_ of the fruitful season, or abundant harvest, there is the_Jera _of poverty and ill changes, and for every _Gebo_ of generosity, there is a _Gebo_ for greed. Only the gods can turn the runes, his mother had said, and that it was up to them to keep the gods from reversing those runes of good fortune. That was the purpose of the sacrifice. To please the gods and stay in their good graces.

The priest finished his chanting and looked at the bound goat on the altar. He raised the dagger, and Hiccup could hear some of the tribesmen be caught in their own chanting. His mother chanted too, beside him, though whatever runic speech came from her tongue was drowned out by many others’.

Hiccup never took his eyes away from the ritual, the priest brought down the dagger to its heart from one blink to the next and then the animal was dead. Not even a final bleat to be carried to the sky, as if it hadn’t known that upon the brandish of the dagger it would soon be nothing more than a carcass.

From then, the priest had cut it open. Hiccup had a front row seat to the gory spectacle that was the man digging his hands elbow deep into the guts of the dead animal and cut out its heart. He raised it to the sky as he did with the dagger and Hiccup saw his lips move, but he couldn’t hear anything from him. Then he brought it down, and, with blood-soaked hands drew a rune stave on the top of his head. The runes he had chanted came together in a bloody mark at the top of his head, and at the sight of it, the tribe grew silent.

The goat’s blood grew to a puddle and was dripping from the altar and was drunk by the soil of the earth. Hiccup watched the priest gather the blood into a bowl and walk to his father, where the man dipped his fingers into the blood and ran it across his face. It resembled a bloody claw mark.

He then stood in front of the altar, and the tribe began to gather towards him. His mother grabbed both their hands, though Hiccup saw Dagur slip free from her hold, a small scowl on his face as he muttered something under his breath. Hiccup rolled his eyes, knowing he was probably complaining about not wanting to be babied.

One by one, the priest flicked the goat’s blood on the Berserkers, who then walked in the hall, where the noise of merry making began to grow. His mother and Dagur were given the goats blood before him, and when he stood in front of the priest, he was reminded of how much the man unsettled him. His bronze, unblinking gaze pinned him down and made his mouth dry; his lips were set into a line. Hiccup thought that he could pass on as a statue with how expressionless he was. He looked at Hiccup longer than he liked before goat’s blood was flicked to his face, some landing on his white tunic. Hiccup scurried inside the mead hall and made a beeline to where his brother was being berated by their mother.

“-don’t wipe it off, Dagur, for the last time!”

“It’s on my mouth!”

“Put your hands down and leave it! It’s bad luck to wipe it off, I tell you.” His mother sighed but perked when Hiccup came to them. “Oh, good. We’re all here. Now, let’s go sit with your father and have a feast.” She ushered them to the table at the front, which was usually reserved for the chief and his family. Though there was already a gathering around his father as tales and drinks were exchanged. There were empty seats close to his father that they took. Dagmar greeted him with a kiss to his cheek and a soft smile, one that their father returned with a besotted smile behind his thick beard.

He then turned to them. “Boys! Eat heartily and show thankfulness for the harvest tonight,” he said jovially, a light flush on his cheeks, signifying his near tipsy state. Hiccup didn’t think Dagur would have much trouble with that, seeing as he was already stacking his plate with chicken legs and yak chops. His mother added some vegetables on his plate, and she silenced him with a look when he opened his mouth to no doubt complain. Osvald chuckled and patted Dagur’s shoulder, then he reached over and ruffled Hiccup’s head.

“After you’ve eaten your fill, go and say your prayers to the gods outside, aye? There’s some good lads,” Osvald said when they nodded their heads before he returned to his conversation to the group he had spoken with.

Hiccup watched the spirited tribe’s folk go about the celebrations as he took some bites from a cooked potato and yak meat. There were many who sang different songs in their corners that turned into an undecipherable mash of merry voices the louder they sang. Some were dancing on tables, presumably already drunk.

Not one who enjoyed the rambunctiousness in every feast, Hiccup snuck away easily enough with everyone’s attention elsewhere. When he slipped past the hall’s doors, the celebrations were more subdued. Some danced around the fire to the sound of drums, lost in a trance to the rituals of the Álfablót. Everyone had their own way of doing things. Some prefer to pray to the gods before they feasted, taking their time, while others would rather a horn of mead before approaching the gods.

Speaking of, Hiccup stuck to the shadows, out of the way of the dancing folk, and to the side of the hall. There stood a shelter, every inch of wood was carved with endless knots and protective runes, and it housed the pole idols of the pantheon, both Æsir and Vanir. It was far enough that the sounds of merry making were muted when Hiccup went in and didn’t disturb the sacral silence for prayers to the gods.

There were a few people standing by certain idols, each lightened by a pair of torches on either side. Hiccup could tell the essence of what they’re praying for from what god they stood before, something that his mother would admonish him for being rude. The women who stood, touching the idol of the god Freyr would be praying for fertility, either for her lands or her womb. Another touched the erected idol of Thor, a prayer of a warrior spirit and skill on her tongue. Hiccup prided himself in being observant, it was a skill overlooked by many, but his father encouraged it when Hiccup proved its usefulness; he once stopped him from providing a shepherd with a small flock of sheep after he told him he had overheard the man boast of lying to the chief about his stolen flock, that he had actually sold, and attempted to make an easy coin.

Hiccup wandered to each idol, catching bits of whispered prayers as he passed.

“…_let my lands be rich for next year’s harvest...”_

_“… good health for my husband…”_

_“… a child. All I ask… “ _

He stopped in front of the wooden idol of Frigg, runes encompassing her arms and the hem of her dress. She held a spindle in her hands, and her cats, Bygul and Trjegul, stood guard on each side of her and stared him down. Gifts were already placed by her feet that consisted of saucers of milk, goblets of mead and wine, and some pastries. Hiccup pulled out a tart that he had swiped from the table and placed it among the other presents. 

Hiccup touched the smooth wood that made her hand and leaned forward to press his head against it. It was a respectful gesture that his mother told him to do the first time he went in the shelter full of idols. There was a prayer that his mother usually said that corresponded with each god, but Hiccup had yet to learn all of it. The question of why it was done passed through his thoughts one too many times, though he never voiced out his questions as much as he wanted to. So instead he called for protection over his family and his tribe, a common request for the goddess.

* * *

* * *

He pulled back and looked up at the goddess’ carved face once again when his attention was brought to a figure behind the wooden image of the goddess. Standing outside the circle of wooden idols, was the priest. He was still as the carved figures of the gods, he could have passed as a decoration of some sort, and he was staring straight at Hiccup. The bloody rune he had written on his head was dried up and looked black in the dim light. Hiccup held back from shrinking underneath his dispassionate gaze and instead mustered a glare at the man. Still, he held no emotion, nor did he react to Hiccup’s glare (not that he would admit that it wasn’t at all intimidating- it’s a work in progress).

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and Hiccup jumped, a squeak escaped him before he remembered where he was and slapped a hand over his mouth. Heads spun around and glared at him; Hiccup, in turn, whipped his head around to glare at his brother. Dagur only grinned at Hiccup’s misfortune. The younger of the Osvaldsons shoved his brother out of the shelter, feeling the eyes follow him until they rounded the corner and within sight of the bonfire.

“You stupid! You could’ve gotten me in trouble.” Hiccup hit his brother’s arm but, damn him, he didn’t even look to have felt a thing.

“You’re the one who squealed like a pig,” snorted Dagur.

“I did not!” Indignation made him straighten and point his nose to the air. “What’re you even doing outside? I thought you’d still be eating.”

His brother suddenly scowled. “Dad was smacking.”

Hiccup’s face held an expression of understanding. Dagur _hated_ when people ate loudly, or as he calls it, ‘smacking’. Their dad was guilty of such an offence.

Dagur made a small detour to a barrel of mead, where he plucked an empty horn from the table beside and filled it before walking them near the bonfire. They sat on a log, cut in half to have a smooth seat, that faced the dancing Berserkers in front of the fire. The two just watched the dancers while Dagur uttered a “_skál_” before he drank. When his mead was half empty, he gave the rest to Hiccup, who took it reluctantly. The taste made him suck his cheeks, but Dagur told him that he’d learn to like it. As Hiccup downed the rest with a shiver, he decided that he had much to learn before he could ever like the horrid drink.

Hiccup saw his brother with his shoulders slumped and scowling at the fire. He waited for a moment before Dagur would inevitably burst out with his thoughts.

“Why does he always treat everything like it’s some peace treaty meeting?” Dagur growled, crossing his arms. “Sign this, peace that, make friends bleh-bleh-bleh. It’s so stupid! And he drags me into it all the time! ‘Dagur, you have to talk like this’, ‘Dagur, when signing a treaty, you have to blah!’, or ‘Dagur, making peace is important’. Yeah, whatever, but that doesn’t mean you have to shove your treaty talks on everybody’s faces when they wanna celebrate in _every_ blót and festival!”

Hiccup waited for his tirade to end; it was never a good idea to speak over his brother when he went off. He learned the hard way that it would just direct his frustrations to you. So, he sat and listened.

“We’re supposed to be Berserkers! The mightiest of tribes and warriors of Odin! Great-uncle Haggard said we’re fighters, we _thrive _in battle, not ploughing soil and fishing- though we are good at that too, but that’s not the point! While he’s out there fighting dragons and ridding the world of those beasts and other evils, everyone else here is growing fat and lazy,” Dagur hissed, glowering at the unfortunate tribesmen who was in his peripheral vision.

Hiccup wasn’t surprised to hear their Great-uncle’s name be involved in Dagur’s rant; he idolized the man. Not that Hiccup wasn’t guilty of it too, he just enraptured them with mighty tales of his bravery in battles and the many adventures he embarked in his youth when he stops by on his rare visits. Old as their great-uncle was, he could still split a head of a Monstrous Nightmare like butter under a hot knife.

He was suddenly whirled around to face his brother, who stared at him in the eye, his vibrant green eyes were hard. “You believe me, don’t you, brother?”

While Hiccup could understand Dagur’s frustration, he disagreed on the idea of throwing yourself headfirst into trouble. Peace had been in their tribe for decades because of their father’s pursuit for peace treaties, it had protected them and forged allies with many tribes. Dragon-fire hadn’t touched their homes for years.

The lie came easy.

Hiccup smiled at him. “Of course.” Dagur’s grin was wide. Hiccup stood up and pulled his brother along. “C’mon, let’s dance around the fire. Let’s not miss out on the rituals.” He hid his smirk as Dagur’s grin melted away and ignored his complaints about ‘being too full to dance’.

They stood in front of the bonfire and began to move their body to the beat of the drums, circling each other with breathless smiles as they rotated around the fire. They danced until Dagur begged him to stop, a smile still on his lips, as he began to gripe about a stitch. Hiccup led him to the side, rolling his eyes as he continued to whine.

“Aye, what’s this? The chief’s heir and hiccup dancing like li’l fairies. Isn’t tha’ just adorable?” A familiar drawl came from behind them. They both spun around to the sight of Ansson and two of his lackeys, Stuf and Fiske, towering over them. Both of the boys stood on either side of Ansson, pale-haired and arms as thick as their skill; they were bigger in comparison to Ansson’s spindly frame, who’s height was no less intimidating.

Hiccup felt his brother tense and begin to pull him away. “Let’s go, Hiccup.”

That just made Ansson grin, showing yellow teeth. “Going so soon, Dagur? Say, ye wouldn’t mind showin us that li’l twirl ya did, would ye? Like a dainty li’l flower. Oh, now that’s a idea. Dagur the _Dainty_ sounds like the perfect name for ye!” Ansson laughed at his own joke, the two followed him.

Hiccup felt Dagur flinch and his tugging became more insistent. But Hiccup felt rage whirling in his gut and his face heated in anger. Spotting the empty horn by his feet, Hiccup was blind with fury as he picked it up and hurled it at Ansson. He had a second to feel pride as the hollow horn hit the teen’s nose, cutting off his laughter before he took Dagur’s hand and yelled “_Run!_”

They took off into the woods, the three bullies hot on their heels, who sent threats and curses their way. Hiccup weaved them expertly past the thicket and trees, giving them the upper hand against the older teens’ longer legs. Hiccup made a sharp right and dove behind a fallen tree. He slapped a hand over Dagur’s mouth to muffle his heavy breathing, just in time as Ansson and his stooges stopped nearby to catch their breath.

“Where’d they go?” panted Fiske.

“I dunno!”

“Agh! Ye muttonheads! I thought ye had yer eyes on them!” Ansson yelled.

“They probably haven’t gone far, Ansson. Let’s just leave them here. Nobody’s supposed to even be out here during the night.” Stuf’s voice was shaky, and it wasn’t because he was out of breath.

“Yeah, I heard the priest lives in these woods, and that he skinned trespassers. He’d know we stepped foot on his land! Ansson, let’s get outta here.” Hiccup heard Fiske whimper, then the sound of skin being hit.

“Shut up! That runt threw a rock at me this mornin’ and made a fool outta myself! He’s gonna get what’s comin’ to him!” Ansson hissed. “They couldn’t have gone far, look around!”

Hiccup’s eyes widened as the shuffling of footsteps came near. He racked his mind for a way to escape, but they all led to getting out of their hiding place; they’d be out in the open seeing as the nearest tree to hid behind was out of their reach.

He felt Dagur frantically tugging on his tunic and he prepared a glare to him until he saw his terrified eyes gesturing to what’s in front of them. Hiccup turned his head and swallowed down a high-pitched noise. A snake the size of a branch was slithering up Dagur’s leg.

Dagur’s panicked eyes caught Hiccup’s. If it wasn’t for his hand over his mouth, Hiccup was sure he’d be screaming. A crazy idea popped into his mind, like a torch lit by a flame, the idea came in his time of need. Hiccup lunged at the snake, hand wrapping near its neck and he threw it over his head.

It landed with a hiss, then the screaming started.

“It’s raining snakes!”

“It’s coming towards me!”

“Get outta my way, you idiots!”

Then they ran away. He could hear their screams of terror grow further away, until silence came upon the dark woods once again. Dagur wrenched himself from Hiccup’s hand and stood, patting himself.

“Oh gods. _I’m alive_.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes and stood, patting his rump free from leaves and dirt. He was then tugged into his brother’s crushing embrace.

“That’s all thanks to you, brother. Ha! I can’t believe you threw a snake at them!” Dagur cackled. “You just grabbed it by the neck, and _whoosh!_ Raining snakes_! Hahahaa_!”

Dagur pushed him at arm’s length, and Hiccup let out a gasping breath once being freed from his brother’s grip. He was facing Hiccup with a wide grin that unsettled many. “Always there to save the day, aren’t you, brother?”

“Only you, brother,” Hiccup bantered back. “Someone’s got to keep you in check.” He pulled back from Dagur’s hold and nudged his side with a bony elbow. Dagur threw an arm around his shoulder and he stumbled under the weight.

“C’mon, let’s head back. This place is creeping me out!” He said it so cheerfully that Hiccup wouldn’t have known had he not said it.

A dim ray of moon light blanketed them, and Hiccup groaned at the state of their clothes.

“Mom’s going to _kill _us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boi just yeeted a snake ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
_
> 
> This work is un-beta'd, any mistakes concerning spelling, grammar etc. are completely my fault.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**Warnings:**

**[ Mild Description of Injuries ]**

* * *

The sword whistled sharply as it was swung at his head. Hiccup ducked just in time and felt the force of the blade’s swing cut through the air. He had no doubt the sharp blade trimmed a few stray strands of hair. Hiccup recovered too slow, and his enemy delivered a kick to his chest, sending him to the dirt floor and knocking the wind out of him. A leather boot pressed on his chest and kept him down; he felt the cool metal of a blade press under his chin and tilt his head up to look at the owner of the boot.

“Dead. Again. For the sixth time today,” the gruff voice of his partner said. “Your lack of strength killed you.” The pressure of the boot was lifted, and Hiccup was grabbed by the collar and yanked to his feet with an ease that he envied. “Skin and bones are nothing against a blade.”

Hiccup craned his neck at his mentor and scowled. Hilda Half-ear was one of two of the village’s blacksmith and cut an intimidating figure with her six-foot-five height and thick muscles that covered nearly every inch of her. A long scar rested on the left side of her chiselled face, and over the corner of her mouth. True to her name, Hilda’s left ear was nothing but a puckered mass of skin, the hole of her ear still visible. She had lost it during a dragon hunt; a Deadly Nadder had melted the ear right off before she returned the favour and killed it, taking its skull and is proudly displayed in the entrance of her smithy to this day.

“Again,” huffed Hiccup, raising his blade.

Hilda shook her head. “No. That’s enough for today.” She held her hand out for his blade, which he reluctantly relinquished. “You have promise, Hiccup, I wouldn’t have taken you in otherwise. You fit well with a blade. But your small frame and nimble feet can only take you so far, you can’t rely on it forever. As you grow, so will your sword, so fatten up those skinny arms a bit.” Hiccup self-consciously crossed his arms, scowling. “Now, let’s get back in the forge. Training is over and there’s work to be done.”

Hiccup was five when he was first introduced to Hilda. His mother and Hilda had been friends for a long time, they had fought together as shield-maidens in battle. Dagmar had requested for Hilda to train Hiccup with the sword after he had blunted one too many of her cooking knives playing pretend. Hilda had accepted under the condition that he would also be her apprentice as a blacksmith. Hilda had been looking for someone to lighten the load off her work, and it had worked better than they thought when they found out that Hiccup had taken to smithing like a fish to water.

The only problem was that Hiccup, being surrounded by tools and having way too much time on his hands made quite a monstrous combination.

“Hiccup, what’s this?”

Hilda stood and stared at his newest contraption. One that Hiccup was eager to show off.

“It’s a bola shooter!” He said proudly, standing next to the thing. “I made it for when I can go dragon hunting. You said it would take time for me to build strength to throw one, so I just sped up the process! This’ll throw it for me.” He patted the shooting apparatus; it sprung open and shot a bola to Hilda’s direction. She dodged to the side just in time and the bola knocked off the display of smelting tools behind her, spooking Angrboða, her cat, who had been napping nearby.

Hilda looked at the mess and turned to him with a glower, though the scar added to its intimidation.

Hiccup hid his hands behind him, not fast enough to hide the guilty look on his face. “I guess it might need a few tweaking before it’s ready for the field.”

The giant of a woman breathed through her nose. “Clean it up and once you’re done, fuel the fire. Some blades need to be straightened.” He watched her turn to leave.

“I’ll fix it!” He shouted after her and turned back to sigh miserably at the mess.

By midday, Hiccup was drenched with sweat from the scorching temperature of the room. He sharpened blades, while Hilda was hammering the others straight, occasionally hearing her grunt from her efforts.

Hilda was a woman who didn’t believe in special treatment. Whether you were dirt poor, rich with gold, missing a leg or the son of a chief, she’d put you hard at work. That’s what Hiccup liked about Hilda; she didn’t treat him differently, he neither the chief’s son nor a runt. To her, he was her apprentice, who needed to bulk up a bit to wield a sword properly. She’s one of his only friends in the village, aside from Dagur, of course. Hiccup agreed that it sounded a bit sad to have a woman thirty-something years his elder as his friend, but he didn’t mind much.

The children in the village were either too old or too young to make friends with Hiccup. Not that they would have in the first place. He was the runt of the village. Being the chief’s son kept him from being treated like a social outcast, but that didn’t mean Hiccup didn’t notice the strained smiles or their quick escapes when he was around. Runts that lived to their naming ceremony were considered bad luck in the tribe. A sign of misfortune and brought about bad crops. His mother dismissed the superstition, rounding her anger on anyone who was unlucky enough to say it in her presence, which surprised him since she was the most superstition person he knew. Then again, some people believed that if you accidentally dropped your spoon, you’ll meet your future spouse on the very spot the spoon landed. A load of yak dung.

Hiccup inspected the steel before placing it on another pile of sharpened blades, deeming it sharp enough to shave the hairs of a Viking’s bushy brow. A cloth was thrown at his head and he fumbled to catch it, spotting Hilda’s towering figure making her way to him.

“The day’s been slow, and the work is done. Looks like we’re saved from running fools with bent swords and broken axes for today. Wipe the soot off your face and head home. Dagmar wanted you home early, now off with you.” Brash and no-nonsense Hilda was, if nothing else. She turned back to her hammering, without so much as a 'good work, today,’ or a ‘thanks for the help’.

Hiccup did as he was told, wiping his face free of dirt and grime, before he said a quick ‘bye’ to the blacksmith and he sped off. He weaved past the Berserkers going about their day expertly. Their steps didn’t so much as stutter as Hiccup ran past them, only feeling the rush of air that he left behind.

He opened the door of his home to the sight of his father gearing himself up, while his mother adjusted his shoulder pads. They both looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Where are you going?” Hiccup asked, closing the door behind him.

His mother shared a glance with his father before returning to adjust his armour. Their wordless conversation only made Hiccup frown, but before he could say anything, his father answered, “There have been sightings of a pair of Nadders prowling up in the mountain. I’m taking myself and a few warriors to hunt for them before it starts building nests and breeding like rabbits. We’ll be gone no more than three days, and while you’re here, your mother will-”

“Let me come with you!” Hiccup cut him off, eyes pleading.

Though his father looked to have expected his outburst and sighed. “Hiccup, you know-”

“Please, dad!” He pleaded. “I can do it! I can hunt dragons with you. I’m great with a sword, you already know- Hilda said it herself! I can defend myself. Just, _please_, let me prove it to you.” Hiccup looked straight into his father’s green eyes, begging him to see, to _understand_, his desire to go with him. He thought he saw his father’s eyes show a flash of hesitation before they turned hard. Hiccup felt his hopes shatter.

“No, Hiccup. It’s too dangerous for you, and I have already chosen who to join. Now, listen and obey.” His large hand rested firmly on his head, then pushed his head back to show his crestfallen face. His father smiled sadly behind his thick beard, and Hiccup hated the pity in his eyes.

“Be good and take care of your mother.” He then turned to the stairs and called out. “Dagur, hurry up! We’re leaving.”

Hiccup snapped his head and watched his brother descend form the stairs, dressed in his own armour and carrying his crossbow on his back. His sympathetic look when he caught his eyes told Hiccup that he heard everything, and he felt shame, envy and anger bubbling inside him. He glared at his feet instead of looking at him. Neither did he look up when they left, missing his brother’s look of hurt as he passed the smaller boy.

The rejection stung harshly. Hiccup wondered to himself why he had expected anything else. It wasn’t the first time his father refused his request to join him dragon hunting. In fact, he might just celebrate the thirtieth rejection with a nice tankard of mead.

It was when they left that Hiccup felt tears gather in his eyes; though he quickly wiped them away before they fell when his mother’s skirts stood in front of him. Her cool hand ran through his hair and all the tension left him. He did nothing but sniff miserably. He let her pull him close, his face pressed to her stomach as her hand rubbed his back.

“There, there now, my sweet. It won’t be long before you’ll be out there with your father and brother hunting those beasts. Don’t rush things, Hiccup. You’ll have your chance.” She framed his face with her hands and tilted his head up. Her thumb ran across the skin underneath his eyes. “Now, stop those tears. You hurt your mother’s feelings crying as if you don’t want to spend time with her.”

She pouted childishly, making Hiccup chuckled wetly. “Of course, not. I always like to spend time with you.” His mother smiled and kissed his brow.

“Come on, then. I have something for you.” She straightened and nudged him to follow her.

His mother led him to a room by the fireplace, and his feet instinctually halted under the door’s frame as his mother opened the door.

It was his mother’s weaving room, otherwise known as the room that Dagur and he were absolutely _forbidden_ to enter unless their mother accompanied them, or had her permission to do so. Not even their father was allowed inside without getting an earful from his mother. Hiccup had only ever been inside the room once, and that was because his brother had coerced him into sneaking in and seeing what’s inside. They got caught red-handed, barely three steps in the room, and Hiccup could still feel how hard his ears rang with how shrill his mother’s voice got when she scolded them.

Good times.

Taking his mother’s ushering hand as a sign of permission to enter, Hiccup went inside. The room looked the same as it did the last time he laid eyes on it. A loom stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by thick ropes of thread and cloth hanging from the wall. There were a few finished tapestries displayed in their full glory. One narrated a ship full of Vikings sailing across the sea, with the sinister figures of sea dragons lurking underneath them. Another displayed the image of the world tree, Yggdrasil, surrounded by the animals that take shelter under the eternal tree of life.

Hiccup awed at the intricate tapestries that adorned the room.

“Do you like them?” His mother’s hands rested on his shoulders. He looked at her and nodded with a smile.

“They’re amazing!” He exclaimed. His eyes were brought to the beginnings of another tapestry, adorned with green and golden threads, set up on the loom. “What’re you making next?”

“That’s a secret, my sweet. You’ll just have to wait until it’s finished.”

“I’ll be the first to see?” He looked up at her.

She smiled secretively. “I promise.” She turned him away from the loom and to a large shelf. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”

His mother got a stool to stand on in front of the shelf full of weaving tools and rolls of cloth. She reached for something on the top of the shelf and pulled out a dusty red book. She blew the dust from its cover and got off the stool. Hiccup was shifting impatiently as she took a moment to gaze upon the cover.

“This book,” she began, “has been passed on through generations in my family, beginning from my first ancestor, Aki Blood Eye. They say that when he was born, his eyes were of two different colours, while one held the blue eyes that my family is known for, the other was the colour of blood. His red eye was deemed a curse, for, throughout his life, he watched his family fall prey to the hands of death. From battle to sickness, his family fell until all that was left was him. Aki and his cursed eye were said to bring death to those who looked at it, so he covered it, hoping to be free from the tribe’s cold and fearful demeanour towards him.

It wasn’t until one fateful day when a dragon had gouged out his uncovered eye, that Aki’s life would be forever changed. Forced to rely upon his remaining eye, Aki began to see the world in a different light. Stories say that in his eye he saw the creation of all the realms and gazed upon the colossal height and splendour of the great world tree. It is said that he was granted knowledge akin to Odin, knowledge that he used to help the tribe. But he began to know more things than he could ever hope to use. Like pouring mead into a goblet without halt, it overflowed; his mind couldn’t hope to carry the knowledge of the world. So, he wrote this book, to bear the knowledge that he could not handle being burdened with. He wrote until his dying days.”

She caressed the cover of the old book with careful fingers. From what Hiccup could see, the edges were fraying from its age.

“From then on, my family has kept it safe, and have carried on what Aki Blood Eye had started. Each hand of my blood and kin this book has been passed on to has written something that honours the power my family’s founding father has been gifted. Knowledge. And as it was passed on to me, I now pass it to you.” She finished by holding out the aged book. Their eyes locked with an intensity that dried Hiccup’s tongue.

He dropped his eyes to the book, thick with generations of information bound between yellowed pages. Hiccup’s hand lifted and touched the old cover. He hesitated.

His eyes flickered back to his mother, who was watching him carefully. “But I’m… I’m not blood or kin. I can’t-…”

“I cradled you in my arms when you cried,” she cut him off. “You feed you milk from my breast, and your first words were ‘Mamë’. I know this because I’m your mother. Whether you were born from me or not, it doesn’t make you any less my son, nor I any less than your mother. There’s no greater bond than between a mother and her child. Remember that, Hiccup.”

Hiccup felt his lip wobble in an attempt to keep the tears at bay, and he nodded. She held the book out again, and, this time, he took it without an ounce of hesitation. He buckled a bit under its weight, and he huffed as he hefted the book in his arms. He finally got a good look at the book. Upon closer inspection, he figured that the skin of the book was made from dragon-hide, though from what dragon, he couldn’t say. The cover of the book was wholly engraved by an image of Yggdrasil; its branches and roots were entwined decoratively to cover the front. Though it was worn and old, its elaborate knots were nothing short of stunning.

His mother smiled at him while he admired the book. He carefully opened the cover to the first page, where the aged and yellowed parchment paper was blank, save for the runes that were carefully written in the middle of the page.

“‘The Eye of Odin’,” Hiccup read. “‘Aki Blood Eye writes this with zeal, in hoping that my mind be burdened no more.’”

“That’s what they started calling his eye. They thought he was given the same eye Odin has sacrificed in his pursuit for knowledge, and that he had been granted the same gifts as Odin in the well of Mimir,” his mother said. “Though it’s not as good as the real thing, it’s the closest thing I could get you to defeating dragons.”

Hiccup paused and looked at his mother as if she had grown a second head. “How am I supposed to defeat dragons with a book?”

Dagmar reached out and turned the pages of the book, the stiff parchment made crackling noises as she flipped them. She didn’t move far from the first page of the thick book, and Hiccup found himself looking down at another nearly blank page that held only yellow stains and runes. Though this time it was written by another hand.

“‘How to Kill a Dragon.’” Hiccup’s brows rose. “‘Gunnar the Heinous writes this with fury in his blood, in hopes that it will help you on your path… to vengeance.’ _Woah_.”

His mother hummed. “Yes, I believe Gunnar the Heinous wrote that shortly after his only son was killed by a dragon. After that, he dedicated his life to finding everything there is to know about dragons. What they eat, when they sleep, the hours they wake.”

Hiccup had flipped the paged carefully, eyeing the carefully drawn dragons and the runes that filled the pages. When he heard what his mother said, he frowned.

“That sounds like a waste of time. Why did he have to go so far as to know when they slept and woke up when he could have gone after the dragon that killed his son?” His eyes dropped to the life-like picture of a Whispering Death; its mouth was wide open to show its rings of teeth. The image brought a shiver down his spine.

“He did kill the dragon and avenged his son. He also slew every dragon that crossed his path after that with such ease that the tribe called to him when dragons raided, and they fled at the sight of him. All because he wrote all that he knew.” She patted the book. “Learn and remember this lesson well, my son. To defeat your enemy, you must know their weakness, know it better than they know themselves, and exploit it. That is how you survive against the monsters of this world.”

Hiccup was silent for a moment. “Do you really think I can kill dragons with this?”

Dagmar ran a hand through his hair and said softly, “And more, my sweet boy.”

“And, maybe one day, dad might…” he trailed off, finding that the hurt kept him from voicing out his hopes.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He felt her lips press a kiss on the top of his head. “You will do many great things, Hiccup. Who knows, maybe you’ll write your stories of greatness in this book one day.”

“I can write my own stuff in this book?”

“It’s yours to do as you will.”

“What about you?” Hiccup asked. “Did you write anything inside?”

Dagmar smiled a bit sadly. “No. I didn’t feel I had anything worth to share. But I’ve done my duty in passing it to you. Use it well.”

Hiccup closed the book and looked at his mother.

“I will.”

<<<>>> 

His father and his hunting party returned from their hunt two nights later, exhausted and dirty, but proud and victorious all the same. They brought to the tribe the heads of the pair of Nadders and their tails, to be stripped of their spines for the tribe’s use. Hiccup stayed in his room and read while the tribe celebrated their heroes for the day.

That night, Hiccup’s room was dimly lit by candlelight as he read from the pages of the book his mother gave him. He had just finished reading about the select fishes that Zipplebacks eat when his door creaked open, and his brother shuffled in. Hiccup was ready to grouch about knocking before he entered for the umpteenth time, but he held his tongue, remembering that he was still upset with their father and him. So, he burrowed his head back into his book and ignored him.

He heard his brother’s hesitant footsteps walk and stop by his bed. Hiccup was inwardly surprised by his subdued demeanour, but he knew that his temper will out. His brother wasn’t the patient sort… though in this instant, he was unusually forbearing. He could hear Dagur shift his feet and Hiccup slammed his book shut, startling the older boy.

Hiccup caught sight of Dagur’s wary expression and sighed, guilt poking at him. He felt a bit silly, being angry at his brother for something he couldn’t control. It wasn’t his fault his father wouldn’t let him go on the hunt. He shuffled to make some space in his bed and looked at Dagur expectantly.

His brother’s face brightened and he eagerly hopped next to Hiccup. Before he knew it, they were both squeezed in Hiccup’s bed and under his furs. Hiccup jolted back as something was held in front of him, he had to cross his eyes to figure out what Dagur had shoved to his face.

“It’s a tooth from one of the Nadders! It bit my arm guard and I stabbed it in the eye, and when it let go- _bam!_ A tooth!” Dagur held up the Nadder tooth proudly. “It’s for you.”

He carefully took the tooth and inspected the sharp gift. Dagur had certainly taken the time to clean it and secure it to a long piece of twine to make it into a necklace. He turned the tooth to the other side and the rune Mannaz was a bit crudely carved. Though not the most expertly made, Hiccup saw his brother’s thoughtfulness in every scratch on the tooth. He put it on with a smile, admiring it for a moment. Hiccup then looked at his brother and wrapped his arms around his middle in an embrace.

“Thank you.” He kissed his cheek. “I love it.”

Dagur puffed his chest with pride, a silly grin on his face. Hiccup laughed and pushed him playfully.

“You want to see what mom gave me?” 

His brother perked and his grin grew wider. “Show me.”

Hiccup opened the book between them and told Dagur all about how you can tell which dung belongs to which dragon with just a glance.

<<<>>> 

The docks were lively with chatter and shouting merchants advertising their wares despite the early hour. The sun had barely peeked from the horizon, but already half of the village was already awake and eager to get the best of goods.

Hiccup uttered a jaw popping yawn as he walked alongside his mother, carrying an empty basket on his back. His mother had woken both her sons in the early hours, asking them to join her to the trading docks. They had obviously moaned and groaned about it, burrowing back under their warm blankets and were set on going back to sleep. But, curse his soft heart, once hearing his mother’s discouraged sigh, Hiccup dragged himself out of bed to go with her. He kicked Dagur’s bed for good measure, but the lazy clod was already back asleep.

“Apples from Persia! Bright red and oh so succulent! The finest apples in this side of the Archipelago!”

“Greek vases! Greek vases! With the finest art painted on its skin to decorate your home!”

“A ruby necklace for the lady? A lovely lady should decorate herself with the finest rubies and gold!”

Merchant after merchant shouted and shoved their wares at passersby. His mother held his hand, so as to not lose him to the bodies of the early birds.

“Oh, mangoes! I’ve tasted them once, they’re very sweet. I think you might like them, should we buy a few just to try?”

“I thought you were here to buy dye and silk,” Hiccup moaned. 

“You’re right, you’re right. Silk and dye first, mangoes later.” His mother shook her head and dragged him to one of the boats. Hiccup bemoaned not staying in bed.

They walked onto a tradesman’s boat full of carefully placed rugs, wool, silk and other goods that suggested what customers the trader tailored to. A portly man with a big well-groomed beard, adorned with golden and silver jewelled accessories, approached them, a wide smile on his face. Upon closer look, Hiccup could see khol painted around his brown eyes.

“Ah, the lovely chieftess, my ever-loyal customer! And back so soon!” He had a loud voice, enough that it made Hiccup jump.

His mother chuckled. “You don’t have to flatter me every time I come here.”

“Nonsense! It’s an uncontrollable trait every trader has, I’m afraid.” He winked, then his eyes caught sight of Hiccup’s small frame, slightly hidden behind his mother’s skirt, staring at an ornate rug on display. “Ah, now what’s this? Another customer with a keen eye?”

Hiccup snapped his head to the trader, who smiled at him. He looked at the rug that Hiccup had been staring at. “That rug right there was given to me by a very wealthy man, also a good friend of mine, as a gift. He said that he had his servants spin gold into threads and weaved it into that very rug. Very nice, isn’t it?” He gestured to the said rug, red mostly, and held mesmerizing geometric patterns of brown, blues and the famed spun gold. “Come, come. Have a feel for it.” He held the rug up.

His mother gave him a subtle nudge and he moved to the rug and touched it. It was far from the woollen pelts in the floors of his home. It was flat with how tightly bound the woollen threads were, and the golden threads were rough and disturbed the soft surface of the rug.

“Tell me, what are you thinking?”

Hiccup was silent as he ran his hand across the rug. Then he spoke, “Your story, it’s not very good. If your wealthy friend wanted a nice rug, he wouldn’t have put gold with a wool rug, it just disturbs its softness, and what’s the use of putting gold into a rug when all that’ll happen to it is to be stepped on? How valuable is his gold, or this rug really, if he let people’s feet dirty it?”

A stunned silence lasted for a few seconds before his mother’s embarrassed voice said, “He meant about the rug, son.”

The small Viking flushed and was about to apologize when a burst of deep bellied laughter cut through the embarrassment.

“Who is this young man, Dagmar _jaan_? I like him, I like him! A very smart young man you have with you. Very good!” Hiccup buckled under the large hand that patted his shoulder. “What is your name?”

“My name is Hiccup,” he answered, warily staring at the large, flamboyant man.

“My youngest,” his mother supplied, resting a hand on his head.

“Hiccup!” The man exclaimed and gave a grand bow. “Remember this one as Hassan Radan! The greatest trader of the finest silk and wool and everything in between from across the Barbaric Archipelago and beyond! And you, you are a smart boy, a smart boy who asks smart questions.”

Hiccup flushed, but a small grin touched his lips.

“I know someone who will like you, just see. Come, come. _Amir jaan!_” he shouted as he led them to the farther side of the boat, where crates of merchandise were stacked up. As they grew closer, they saw the seated figure of an older boy on a stool, a pile of wood shavings at his feet. He was carving something on a block of wood, already taking a basic shape. He had the same olive skin and dark hair as Hassan, though when he looked up at the sound of their approach, Hiccup saw pale blue eyes, instead of the trader’s brown. But neither of those were what Hiccup had first noticed.

His face was littered with scars, a myriad of white lines against his olive skin, with the largest cutting down his right cheek. Hiccup couldn’t help but stare and wonder how he came to have them. They looked sharp enough to have been caused by a dragon, perhaps he was attacked by a Terrible Terror; he read that they were the most vicious of assailants. Next, was that his legs were bound by leather belts and that they were skinnier than the rest of him. He was a cripple.

Hassan clapped the older boy’s shoulder. “My nephew, Amir. Both of you share a like mind, good for asking questions. Amir _jaan_, this is Hiccup, the chief’s son. Show your respect, nephew.”

Amir, Hiccup could tell, was a silent one. While his uncle talked, Amir silently observed them, with a look his mother would later tell him looked eerily like his. He bowed, not rising from his seat, keeping his eyes on them.

“Very good! We will leave you to be better acquainted, yes? Yes! Come, Dagmar _jaan_, I shall show you the newest silks and materials I’ve acquired. Finest silk in the Archipelago!”

His mother sent him an encouraging smile before following the foreign trader. Hiccup turned back to the older boy, Amir, who had focused back on his whittling. Seeing as there was nothing offered for him to sit on, Hiccup took his basket off and overturned it on the floor, and sat on it, waiting silently until his mother finished.

The sound of the other boy’s knife sliding against the wood and his mother and the trader’s voices were the only thing disturbing his silence in the fort of crates. Hiccup, still grumpy over the early hour, kept to himself, unwilling to disturb Amir nor having much patience to speak at that moment, He had a feeling that a conversation with the foreigner would be one-sided.

“Hiccup,” a soft voice spoke.

The small Viking turned to Amir at the sound of his name. The other boy was staring at him, blue eyes bright against his dark complexion. His brow was furrowed.

“What?” Hiccup asked.

The foreign boy looked at him curiously. “Strange… you have a strange name.”

Hiccup frowned but didn’t deign to answer him.

“I’ve never heard a Viking called ‘Hiccup’. Why were you named that?”

Said boy’s cheeks reddened and he scowled at the crippled boy. “You’ve never heard it because you’re a foreigner,” he spat. “You don’t know our ways.”

That silenced Amir, and he lowered his eyes. Hiccup huffed, feeling a bit of guilt at his harsh rebuff but his ignorant questioning soured his mood. He wasn’t willing to explain the obvious reasons of why he was named as he was. Hiccup heard the sound of the knife shaving wood resume.

“Do you have another name?” He tried again. “You must have. I know that you are like me, you-“

Hiccup stood and glared down at the older boy. “I’m nothing like you, foreigner. Be careful how you speak to me,” Hiccup hissed, looking from his scarred face to his bound legs. Amir hunched his back and appeared smaller, but his eyes showed no fear, only a determination to get the answers to his questions.

“I apologize, son of the Berserker chief. I didn’t mean any offence. I only meant that you are… _ack_, I do not know your language’s name for it.” He said something in his language, perking Hiccup’s interest at the sound of the foreign speech. “When a woman becomes a man, or when a man becomes a woman. Does that make any sense? Yes, I know that’s what you are.” Amir nodded to himself, looking hopefully up at Hiccup.

The younger boy eyed him and sat back down. His anger abated at his explanation and gave way to curiosity. “How did you know?”

Amir grinned, stretching the scars on his face, looking delighted at Hiccup’s question. “I have a knack for knowing things.” He chuckled at Hiccup’s dissatisfied look. “I am too, like you. Perhaps we attract each other.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hiccup grumbled, but a small smile was on his lips. 

“Then, think of our meeting as being fated by the gods.”

Hiccup narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You believe in the gods?”

“My father was a Norseman, he taught me to believe in the gods. He is in Valhalla now.”

“And your mother?” Hiccup asked, taking a quick look at his own mother, who was pre-occupied admiring a red fabric held by Hassan.

“Dead.” His smile turned a bit forced and Hiccup knew to drop it.

“You asked me before why I’m called Hiccup,” he began.

Amir nodded, looking intrigued. “I did.”

“It’s because I’m a runt. My tribe doesn’t give runts proper names because they don’t expect them to live long.”

The older boy hummed. “But you did.”

“But I did.” Hiccup nodded.

“Then you must be highly favoured by the gods. That must mean that you are expected to do great things in return.”

Hiccup scoffed. “I told you I was a runt, don’t start mocking me now. There is nothing great about being a runt.”

Amir paused and looked at Hiccup with an intensity that he felt his spine straighten. “I am a cripple, not blind, Hiccup, chief’s son. When I say I have a knack for knowing things, then believe me when I say you will repay the gods’ kindness with greatness.” He held up the finished product of his wooden figure to Hiccup. It was whittled to the shape of a bear. “As a token of my friendship. Take it, and I promise you, that everything I say about you will come true.”

“A big promise just for your friendship,” Hiccup said, frowning. “What makes you think you’re special? In fact, what makes you think I would be the things you say I will be?”

The older boy grinned. “I just know.” 

Hiccup frowned, not believing him, but he carefully wrapped his fingers around the standing carving of the bear until it was cradled in his palm. His suspicious eased at Amir’s sincere face, though it did not vanish. “Why a bear?”

Amir’s grin widened. “I like bears.”

<<<>>> 

It happened during dinner, the only occasion when the whole family was in one room. His mother was always insistent on having the evening meal together, it was the rule she set to the highest regard when everyone is usually off to their own duties in the mornings. It was also the night that the sacred rule of ‘keeping civil during the evening meal’ was broken.

Mutton was the meal for the night; his mother’s mutton roast never failed to lure everyone out of their rooms. Hiccup was content to eat and give the occasional nod and short answers. Dagur was boasting about how he shot four bullseyes in a row during training that morning when his father addressed him.

“Hiccup,” began his father. “You know the baker’s daughter, don’t you? The quiet girl, Geirlaug.”

The boy stopped picking at his carrots and glanced at his father. “Yes.” He only ever had one encounter with the baker’s daughter, when he was tasked to pick up some fresh loaves from the single mother and her daughter. She was a calm girl, diligent in her work and kept to herself. The perfect wife-material. That is, before she decided to apprentice under the village healer, Frida, who was also a völva. All her mother’s hopes and dreams into marrying her to a wealthy and well-connected family were shattered for völva’s lived promiscuous lives. It was apparently quite the fiasco, full of two shouting women in the middle of the village that ended with a family torn asunder. He knew of Geirlaug the Undesirable. _Everyone _knew of Geirlaug the Undesirable. “What about her?”

“She’s had an accident that had let her to… be unable to perform her duties,” he said, choosing his words. Hiccup eyed him, then shot a glance at his brother sitting to his left. He was being preoccupied by their mother with idle chatter, but it was obvious that they were paying attention to their conversation.

“What happened?” Hiccup asked, disinterested.

“She had been burned, nearly all of her skin had been eaten by fire while she was running errands.”

At his father’s answer, the table grew silent and they stared wide-eyed at him. He sighed at their bewildered look.

“Who did it?” Dagur asked, recovering from his moment of shock and looking a bit too eager.

Osvald shot him a look. “No one knows. Nobody had witnessed the attack. Though we think it might be a stray dragon slinking about the outskirts we missed.” He shook his head and looked back at Hiccup. “But that’s not why I brought it up. With Geirlaug bed-bound for the foreseeable future, Frida has been looking for someone to help her and I offered your help to her. Should Geirlaug… not be able to return, she’ll consider you to replace her.”

Before his father even finished, Hiccup felt something scorching shift underneath his skin and filled him until red clouded his vision. His knuckles turned white with how hard he gripped his utensils. It burned and bubbled; Hiccup could feel it threaten to break from his skin.

“You didn’t think to ask me if I wanted to help her?” He said through gritted teeth.

His father shot him a hard look, but Hiccup didn’t quell under his gaze like he usually would, which spoke volumes about his anger. “Every healer is important to every tribe, they are irreplaceable. They hold the tribe’s respect and years of knowledge; you should feel honoured to be taught the things she’ll teach you.” He returned back to his meal, acting as if Hiccup’s scorching glare didn’t burn holes through him, and that was that.

He could feel his mother and brother’s eyes on him, but he refused to acknowledge them. It took everything in him to put his utensils down without giving in to his urge to throw and break every plate. He pushed himself off his chair with a muttered ‘I’m not hungry anymore’ and trudged up the stairs.

Hiccup breathed harshly through his nose as he opened the door to the room he shared with his brother. He walked blindly across his room and threw open the panels of his window, hardly feeling the rush of cold that assaulted him. With practised ease, Hiccup climbed off the window and made his ascent to the roof of his home. He found the carved figure of a perching dragon at the edge of the roof. It sported a slew of blade marks, from deep gashes to short stab marks, the abused wooden sentry was less of the image of a dragon and more of a pincushion.

The small Viking pulled a dagger from his boot and, with a yell, he stabbed the wooden dragon in the eye, over and over again. With every cut and stab, he released his anger with a viciousness that he never showed. He cut off the tip of one of its horns and buried his dagger to the hilt on the top of his head with a roar. He panted heavily, the anger inside him easing until all that was left was exhaustion.

Hiccup dropped to his rump, his head between his knees as he tried to catch his breath, thoughts in such turmoil that he didn’t notice another figure drop and sit next to him. It wasn’t until a hand wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him to a warm and sturdy chest that Hiccup lifted his head. Dagur’s face was carefully neutral as he looked over Hiccup’s tear-stained face.

The younger of the two furiously rubbed the tears as if the mere presence of them offended him. With his brother’s familiar embrace, Hiccup didn’t realize how cold he truly was until then.

“How dare he,” Hiccup was quiet, but his tone spoke of how livid he was. His brother kept uncharacteristically silent. “How dare he _insult _me like that?” The humiliation from the conversation at the dinner table brought a new wave of tears.

His father knew what he was doing when he offered Hiccup to the völva, and Hiccup heard his unspoken words.

Völva’s and healers were respected in the tribe, that much was true, and one thing that they all had in common was that there were _always_ women. They were wand-wedded, women who practised and exercised the power of the _seiðr_, power that was granted to them by the goddess Frejya. Amongst their set of skills, they were more widely known for their acts of sex magic. And while such practices were acceptable for a chosen woman in the eyes of the tribe, the same could not be said for men.

Their father made it all too clear what he thought about Hiccup by doing what he did.

“He tells me I’m his son, but he doesn’t really believe it, no matter how hard I try to prove it. He kept his silence, acted his part, but deep down he never accepted me.” Shame, anger and rejection all stabbed at his chest like the cruellest of blades, again and again.

Dagur, gods bless his brother, who was more perceptive than people took him for, seemed to understand the that it was more than just that. To Hiccup, he knew that it was more than just a question of his gender or his manliness with his father. Despite being his lawful son, it would never be better than a trueborn child. It would never be good enough. Hiccup would _never _be good enough for him.

_Nevernevernevernever-…_

The older boy pressed Hiccup close and petted his hair as he cried. “He’s nothing, Hiccup. _Nothing_,” he hissed, tucking his brother’s head under his chin. “You’re more than good enough for me. Don’t listen to them.” He kept repeating it, over and over, until it was almost like he was chanting a prayer.

_Don’t listen to them._

He kept going, even after Hiccup’s tears have dried and his red-rimmed eyes stared blankly at nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, and Snoggletog to yall! Thanks for all who sent a kudos and for your nice comments. It made my day when I saw it and it keeps me writing!
> 
> There's probably a chapter or two left before I'm kicking the plot to gear. I'm excited to write that. So until then~
> 
> p.s. I've got a tumblr and twitter for art and updates (link in profile). Check it out!  
p.ps. Chapter 2 has art!  
_
> 
> This work is un-beta'd, any mistakes concerning spelling, grammar etc. are completely my fault.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

**Warnings:**

**[ **Violence, Blood ]****

* * *

Hiccup was still seething after last night’s… episode. Oh, what’s he saying, last night’s disaster more like. At least his mother didn’t go and give him grief after dinner. He was expected at the völva’s hut before midday, and his brother had _kindly_ decided to accompany him there. Had his brother been anyone else, he would’ve pushed the unlucky soul accompanying him off a cliff.

“You should’ve just gone to your target practice,” muttered Hiccup.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck, don’t look so grumpy.”

Hiccup whirled to face Dagur, who walked beside him with a neutral expression on his face. “_You’re_ only here because _dad_ wanted to make sure I didn’t run off,” he snapped, teeth gritting. “And I don’t want your _luck._ I don’t want anything to do with that old crone.”

Dagur frowned and was about to say something back but Hiccup was already storming ahead. He sighed harshly through his nose but nevertheless followed behind his younger brother.

Hiccup, meanwhile, was plotting. He had confronted his father before he left to do his chiefly duties that morning and made a proposition. He would stay and help the old völva for those three days as his father said, and when the third day ends and she chooses Hiccup as her new apprentice, then he would stop arguing and accept, end of story. _But_ when she rejects him, then his father will teach Hiccup everything about his duties as a chief. Since he was so eager for Hiccup to learn invaluable knowledge from his elders, who better to get it from than the chief himself. And it would definitely be a _when_, Hiccup would make sure of it.

His father agreed to it; whether it was because he wanted to uphold his title as ‘Agreeable’ or because he was so sure Frida would take him in, it sparked Hiccup’s anger either way. But Hiccup got what he wanted in the end. His father, if anything, was honourable in his word, and Hiccup would use that to his advantage.

The völva’s hut was located at the farthest side of the village and was quite a walk away from the Chief’s home. It irked Hiccup to have to walk there every morning for the next three days, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

“We’re here,” Dagur said from beside him.

Hiccup looked at the flight of stone steps with disdain, then followed it up to the lone hut resting on the crest of the highland. He must have taken too long glaring at the hut for he felt his brother’s hand rest on his shoulder, with a soft, questioning, “Hiccup?”

His shoulders sagged, feeling guilt for snapping at him earlier. “I know,” he muttered. He looked at Dagur. “I’ll see you later?” An apology.

Dagur smiled and tugged at the braid in his hair. “Yeah, okay.” Forgiven.

He gave his back a single firm pat before he turned to leave to the training grounds. The runt of the tribe trudged up the steps and braced himself. He stood before the door of the völva’s home, trying to catch his breath after finishing the arduous climb; it was a faded red but riddled with runes and bindrunes, many of which Hiccup had never seen before. He raised a hand over the carvings, intrigued, but his fingers just barely touched the wood before the door swung open. Hiccup jumped at the slam of the door.

He was suddenly assaulted by a smell of spice that itched his nose and made him sneeze violently. He fanned the smell away, face scrunched and coughing slightly as the sting reached his nose and down his throat. “Oh, Thor’s ba-”

“Don’t you finish that, boy!” A voice barked.

Frida stood before him, her back was hunched but Hiccup still only reached to below her shoulders; she peered down at him through her large nose, along with the head of the fox pelt that rested on her shoulders. Khol lined her baggy eyes, sharpening the blue orbs that appraised him.

She hummed, it sounded like a stone being dragged on a freshly polished blade, it made him want to scratch his ears. Then she rose a hand and pointed a shaking, black stained finger at him. “You… are Osvald’s child, the chief’s son.”

“Yes.” Forgotten already, you old sack of skin?

“Here to help me, I hear.” She smacked her lips obnoxiously, then gestured inside. “Come inside, then.”

Hiccup crossed the threshold of her home. Amidst the strong smell of spice and the sour odour of fermenting crops, Hiccup caught the scent of something foul, enough to bring tears to his eyes. He brought his sleeve to cover his face, coughing harshly.

“What’s that smell?” Hiccup pressed his sleeve to the bottom of his face harder.

The old healer merely closed the door behind them and walked ahead, not looking at all bothered by the smell and neither acknowledging his question as she walked deeper into her home. Hiccup had to walk around curing yak legs and whole chickens hanging from the roof beams. He made a face as he passed a piece of meat that was still dripping blood into a bucket.

They came to a stop in what could have been mistaken for a kitchen at first glance had, it not been for the peculiar items in the area. A giant cauldron hung in the middle of the room over an open fire; a murky liquid bubbling sat inside that smelled like someone tried to mask the stink of rotten eggs with mint and succeeded in only worsening it.

Hiccup saw the old healer throw in mint leaves to the foul concoction and he made a face.

She dragged over a stool near the cauldron and lowered herself to the seat with a groan. Frida looked at him, still hovering by the entrance and motioned.

“Over here, child, over here. Grab a seat.”

Hiccup hoped his face showed his displeasure as he forced himself near the vile stench. He dragged his own stool to sit on the other side of the cauldron facing the healer, a thin veil of smoke acting as a transparent wall between them.

“Your father told me that you were here to do as I wished.”

Hiccup instantly bristled, fist clenching his pant leg, but kept his quiet. That wasn’t what his father told _him_.

She procured a long-handled stirring spoon and began to mix the bubbling contents of the cauldron. “Well then, the first thing you ought to know before I let you so much as _touch_ anything…” She lifted the spoon and held it under her nose to sniff. “… is to know your ingredients.” She then held the spoon over to him.

“Now drink this.”

Hiccup startled. It took a moment for him to process what she said, then his face twisted to a grimace. “What? No!”

“If I’m to trust you to help me, then you must drink.” She kept the spoon with its steaming milky liquid pointed at him.

“Why? Why should I? It smells disgusting!” Hiccup covered his nose once more, turning his face away from the stench. The smell burned his nose and made his toes curl now that it was so close.

“You were to do as I say, boy!” She snapped. “Open up! Just a sip, then I will know…”

“Know?” Hiccup asked, hearing her trail off. “Know what?”

She merely held the spoon up and rose her brows expectantly. Hiccup scowled, but he tentatively pressed his lips to the spoon and sipped. He could feel the hot liquid travel down his throat and make home in his belly.

“Well? How does it taste?” The old woman prompted.

Hiccup smacked his lips together, a curious look on his face. “Better than it smells…” He reluctantly admitted.

Frida hummed. “All that act for nothing, hm?”

The young berserker’s face returned to its scowl, but he didn’t deny it. His embarrassment was clear as the red dusting his cheeks. He kept from saying a scathing remark, for fear that she may curse him if the rumours were to be believed.

“What else did it taste like?” She ushered.

Hiccup thought for a moment. “Like… something sweet? I don’t know! Honey, then, it tasted a bit like honey,” he said after she gave him an unimpressed look at his vague answer. “And mint.” 

She pursed her lips and stood. “Very well, if that’s what you say.”

Hiccup stood with her and followed her away from the cauldron. “Aren’t you going to tell me what I just drank?”

“Did you poison me?!” he blurted without thinking.

Frida scoffed. “Don’t be silly, boy. If I had poisoned you, you’d have dropped dead a minute ago.”

The young Berserker sputtered, not finding anything to retort to that, then paused. A dim glow of candlelight caught his eye, seeping through the crack of an open door. He craned his head to try and peek inside and only caught the end of a bed before a wrinkled and spotted hand reached out and shut the door. He startled and looked up at Frida, who stared back solemnly.

“Not for you, boy. Not yet.” She left him to stare after her bewilderedly, then at the closed door. He huffed but followed after her, tucking away his curiosity for a later date.

They went outside her home, through the back door, and to a small shed. Hiccup took a deep breath of the fresh air, enjoying the relief from the foul smell in her home. Though his relief was short-lived as Frida opened the door of her storage shed and out came the stench of something old and rotten, as if something had been left in there for years and festered in the room. But all there was were barrels and shelves full of jars, some tightly sealed and others without lids. Some broken terracotta ceramics joined scattered leaves on the grime stained floor.

Hiccup felt a shiver run down his back as he stared, disgusted at the state of her shed.

“Clean this place, and once you’ve finished meet me back in the house.” She grabbed the broom from the corner and forced it in his hands. Spiderwebs clung to its handle. “Well, _if_ you ever finish.”

He could do nothing but gape at the retreating form of the cackling woman. It took a moment to wrap his head around his current situation, and he had just begun to sputter a reply when Frida had slammed the door behind her, leaving him to stare, horrified, at the mess.

Hiccup dared to take a tentative step inside, holding the broom in front of him defensively, as if anything would come alive and jump at him.

He shrieked as a spider dangled in front of him out of nowhere. The sound of crashing pots and his screech spooked the birds from their perches in the surrounding trees.

<<<>>> 

“There were _eyes_ in her jars,” said Hiccup disdainfully. “_Eyes_!”

Hilda hummed from beside him, polishing a blade while he worked to adjust the screws of his bola shooter. She let him have time to fix the thing, having only swords to polish for the day. Her actions betrayed how interested she was with his invention, for she hasn’t said a word while Hiccup treated her as his assistant, asking her to pass tools and whatnot.

“What if they were human eyes?” He said with horror. “What if she robbed them.”

“Do not be silly,” Hilda tsked. “If they were human eyes, then she most likely cursed them to give it to her.”

Hiccup dropped the hammer, mouth agape in shock. He recovered once hearing Hilda’s rough laughter.

“I jest.”

Hiccup glared at her, picking up his hammer. “She made me taste this foul-smelling potion. I know she poisoned me,” he huffed.

Hilda merely chuckled, not alarmed at his declaration the slightest. She knew him better than to fall for it. “Your day sure sounds like an interesting one.”

“I could be dying.”

“What else did she make you do?”

Hiccup sighed, seeing that she was unperturbed and grumbled, “Clean, mostly. I had to clean her smelly house while she was just weaving ribbons. Then she made me taste her potion again before I left.”

“What did it taste like?”

Hiccup groaned. “She asked me that too, every time. I swear I was ready to throw myself out her window.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “Must you always be so dramatic? You know, the völva doesn’t do things without reason.” She held up the sword, examining it. “Even if you don’t plan to become her apprentice, it’s better you learn the things she teaches you, small as they are.”

“Like how to tell the difference between ten-year-old pickled cabbages and thirty-year-old ones?” he muttered.

He yelped as a fist knocked him at the back of his head.

“One ear may be gone, but the other works just fine, Hiccup,” she admonished, putting away the sword.

She turned her seat to face him, blue eyes boring into green. “You don’t have to like the people you learn from. Their mistakes and their achievements are a lesson in and of themselves.”

Hiccup didn’t say anything and continued to fix his machine. When she stood, he turned his head to her and uttered a soft, “_I _like you.”

She looked at him and gave him a small smile, just a quirk at the corner of her lip for a second but it was as much of a smile as Hiccup could get. She patted his back. “Close up and leave before dark. I’ll know if you don’t.” Then she turned to leave.

As instructed, Hiccup tidied and closed the smithy while there was still a little light left. He made his way to the training grounds, passing the villagers that lit the torches for the night. He never liked the dark; he wasn’t _scared_ of it, no, he was a berserker! There was no such thing as fear in Odin’s warriors. But the dark always unnerved him and brought him into a mess of nerves. So, he quickened his pace in search of his brother.

In his haste, he nearly collided with a large figure, only stopping just a hairs width in front of a wall of leather. He looked up; green eyes wide as red-rimmed brown orbs glowered at him from behind the gap of a steel helmet. There was no face for Hiccup to gaze fearfully at as the man’s head was covered fully by his horned helmet, but he knew who he was immediately.

Hákon the Inhumane.

The name, even just thinking about it, made Hiccup want to bolt for the hills. Yet there he was, standing before him, imposing and chilling He was the night-time story that parents would tell their children, their nightly scare before going to bed or the one they point to when their children were misbehaving._ Stop that! You don’t want Hákon the Horrid to take you away, would you? _His name changed conveniently for any situation. 

But his story stayed the same. Hákon had said to live long since before the Berserker Tribe had made its treaties and lived in peace with its neighbouring tribes. He had made his name in a time of war between tribes, slaughtering men in numbers told in brutal and gory detail; no one dared to doubt those tales. Even among battle-hungry warriors, Hákon’s primal killings chilled them to the bone. No one alive had seen the face underneath his helmet, no one but his father, and when Hiccup, curious as he was, asked once, his father glossed over his question as if it never left his lips.

There were many theories of course. From the head of a dragon, a scar riddled face, and, most outrageously, the rumour that there wasn’t a head there at all. All were terrifying in and of itself. It didn’t help that he was rarely seen during the day, always appearing when the dark began to blanket the island. Though it was the mystery, perhaps, that made people scared most of all of Hákon the Inhumane.

Hiccup was no exception.

Hákon loomed over him, like a mountain on a small pebble, silent and ominous. Hiccup forced his feet to move, treading around the giant of a man, his eyes eerily following him. Once he was out of his way, Hiccup bolted. He could still feel those eyes follow him.

He ran past homes and villagers in their nightly walks, forgetting his brother for a moment until a hand yanked his arm and he spun to face him with a mighty scowl.

“Where in Odin’s name have you been? I was waiting for you and I catch you running around like a headless chicken!”

Hiccup was panting, checking behind Dagur to see if Hákon had followed him. Dagur, catching were his eyes wandered, looked over his shoulder, confused. “What are you looking at?”

He snapped his eyes back to his brother’s. “Nothing!”

Truly, there was nothing but an empty stretch of stone paths and the passing villager, though the man of children’s nightmares himself was nowhere in sight. It brought Hiccup a little sigh of relief.

“Don’t lie to me!” hissed Dagur, taking both his arms and shaking him. “You know I hate liars!”

“I’m not! I dealt with it!” Hiccup insisted. “It’s nothing anymore! Let’s just go home, I’m hungry.”

His brother wasn’t buying it and was none too pleased with Hiccup’s avoidance. With a roll of his eyes, he heaved Hiccup and carried him under his arm, with Hiccup’s arms trapped firmly to his sides, like a sack of potatoes. His vision turned sideways, and he yelled in outrage as Dagur began to move as if he really was carrying a sack of potatoes, not his twig-like brother.

“Put me down! Put me down, Dagur!” He squirmed and kicked, though it was pointless against his brother’s unwavering grip. “You brute.” Hiccup groaned as he fell limp, hoping his dead weight would slow him, but the red-head never broke his stride.

“Gods, why do you even try to lie when you’re so bad at it?” scoffed Dagur.

“Shut up.” It’s not that he was a terrible liar, it’s just that Dagur, like their mother, had a knack for sniffing one out from him. Like mother, like son.

He was carried all the way back home; the smell of stew was heavenly to Hiccup after spending most of the day in Frida’s foul-smelling house. Dagur made the smart move and didn’t let him go until they were inside and within their mother’s line of vision. He knew Hiccup would never start anything in front of her, though he did scowl at his brother’s impish look as he was set down.

“Boys, you’re home! Good, set the table, would you?” She said, not leaving the pot of stew she was stirring. She was flushed, not something Hiccup saw often when she made dinner.

“But I’m filthy!” Dagur complained, gesturing to his dirty and sweat-stained tunic.

Their mother clicked her tongue. “Then, clean yourself, Dagur, for Odin’s sake! Do I need to bathe you too?” she huffed exasperatedly.

Dagur huffed too, looking eerily like their mother with his displeased face. Though, the difference between them was that Hiccup can poke his tongue out at him without consequence, which he did. Dagur shook a fist at him as he made his way upstairs to their room to clean up.

Hiccup was quick to do as his mother requested before she could ask a second time, looking harried enough as she is. Just as he was about to put the last two bowls, his mother stopped him. “Oh, no, no, Hiccup. Just you and your brother for tonight.” 

“What? Why? Where are you and dad going?” It was a surprising turn of events. His mother _never_ let them eat dinner alone, not if she could help it. She’d drag all of them by the ears to the dinner table from across the island than have them miss the evening meal.

“Just a council meeting, my sweet. They called for me in the last minute, I had to whip up something quick for you two. Oh, I planned for a roast tonight too!” She lifted the pot from the fire and placed it on the table over a folded cloth. “There, some fish stew, I put some cod in it, your favourite.”

She was in a flurry as she took off her apron, patted her skirts and fixed her hair. “There are some loaves in the larder. Fill your stomachs, son. Your father and I will be back later tonight.” She kissed the top of his head, grabbed a shawl and left.

Hiccup watched her leave and sighed. “Stop lurking by the stairs, you dolt. I already set up the table.”

Dagur stumbled down the steps, looking offended. “I wasn’t _lurking_.”

The smaller of the two rolled his eyes and nodded his head to the table. He began to serve them both, filling the bowl with the stew and they began to eat.

“What do you think the meeting’s about?” Hiccup asked. “Mom never would’ve left dinner if it wasn’t important.”

Dagur rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, Hiccup, maybe something boring? Something I don’t care about?”

Hiccup cringed as his brother spoke with his mouth full and resisted from chucking his spoon at him. Just like his brother didn’t like the obnoxious sound of loud chewing, Hiccup didn’t like it when people spoke with their mouth full. It was disgusting, and spits of food could come flying out. _Ugh_.

“You’ll _have_ to care about it when you’re chief.”

Predictably, his brother puffed his chest as if he had just been praised for something so shallow. The reminder that he would replace their father as chief always made him inflate with smug pride. “When I’m chief, I’ll make sure to ban all meetings and never miss dinner. We’ll go hunting for dragons, you and me. I’ll take you outside the island, and no one can say no.”

“You can’t just do away with those things and do what you want,” Hiccup admonished, though a smile did touch his lips at the thought.

“I can and I will. I’ll be chief and whatever I say will go. I’ll do what I want!”

Hiccup idly swirled the contents of his bowl with his spoon, watching the diced carrots, potatoes and fish get caught in a whirlpool of his making. He imagined that. Sailing out of Berserker Island for the first time in his life, stepping foot in the neighbouring tribe lands, maybe even as far as the foreign grounds in the East. His father never let him go to the annual treaty signing and visit the tribes, like the Hooligan Tribe of Berk, or the Meathead tribe, the tamer tribes in the Archipelago, or so he heard. Dagur said that he wasn’t missing out on much, but Hiccup wouldn’t put much coin to his words since their father kept him on a tight leash during those times. But Hiccup didn’t expect him to understand, not that he held it against him. Dagur’s the firstborn, the heir, he couldn’t possibly begin to understand what it’s like to be the runt, only barely clinging to the title of ‘the spare’. But he tried. Hiccup wouldn’t take that for granted.

“You don’t have room for one more on your plan, do you?”

Dagur grinned. “With how small you are, I’ve got room for ten of you.”

He laughed wildly as he dodged the hurled spoon.

<<<>>> 

On the second day of helping the village healer, Hiccup was forced to wake bright and early. He expected his mother to be up at that hour making breakfast, but there was no hide nor hair of her when he came down to the kitchen. He figured she must still be sleeping after coming home late. When they tucked in for the night their parents hadn’t yet come back; he guessed they came home later in the night.

He grumbled as he rubbed his arms, feeling the harsh chill of the early morning. He almost felt eager when he knocked on the healer’s door, if only to be in warm shelter once again; though when Frida opened her door and he smelled that foul smell, he took back the thought.

Frida ushered him in with a sweep of her hand, looking impatient when he lingered a bit too long by the door. Huffing a breath through his nose, Hiccup braved past the stench and followed her. _Just one more day after this_, he chanted in his head,_ just one more day. _

The cauldron was still bubbling like it was yesterday, still smelling of an abomination of rotten eggs and mint. But this time, she did not make him sit by the cauldron. Instead, she rummaged in the back of the room and came back with a woven basket.

“You’ll be running errands for me today,” she explained as she began to put jars and vials into the basket from a shelf. “I need you to deliver these remedies. These old bones can barely take me down my steps, let alone walk around the village. But you, you’re a strong lad, you’ll have no problem doing these.” She finished filling the basket and she lifted and held it out to him with an ease that contradicted her earlier statement.

He gave her a deadpan stared and all but snatched the basket from her hand, swinging it to his back with a grunt of “_Unbelievable_” under his breath.

“Careful! Those are delicate glasses holding some valuable remedies!” She tsked, checking at the basket on his back.

“How will I know where to even go?” Hiccup grumbled. He had woken up in the crack of dawn just to run around the village as a delivery boy, excuse him for not jumping for joy.

“I’ve tagged each vial to who it belongs to, you can figure out the rest.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Once you’re done, go fetch me some corn cockles, mugworts and yarrows- as many as you can carry- they’ll be easier to find in the light, so you better hurry.” She ushered him to the door while she listed his errands. “Make sure you send them _all_ to the right person, or I’ll poison you for sure.”

Hiccup paled, then stuttered as he was led outside. “B-But where do I even get them? I don’t even-…”

She shut the door in his face, and he was left staring at the rune decorated wood.

“-know what they are… great.” Hiccup threw his hands up and began to descend the steps, muttering curses as he went. The word mugworts did ring a bell, but he was too vexed to remember where exactly he heard it from.

He didn’t bother to plan his route and merely plucked a jar from the basket. Edgar Cnutsson. Hiccup knew the name at least; Edgar was one of the boatbuilders, old and hardly had any teeth to spare. The problem, really, was where he lived. Hiccup wasn’t one to familiarize himself on where people lived, unlike his mother, he only ever knew their names, or at least heard of them by passing. He could be anywhere.

Hiccup made his way to Hilda’s smithy, hoping she would at least have a clue. The place was alive with the sounds of hammering steel and the roar of the furnace, a familiar sound that relaxed the small Berserker. When he went inside, his ears picked out shouting amidst the noise of the smithy.

“- dammit, woman! My sword is blunt, I can’t even break a twig with this!”

“Are you blind, Olaf? This sword’s sharper than your empty head! How dare you disrespect my work!”

Even though it wasn’t directed at him, Hilda’s shout made him freeze in his tracks. There were only few in the island who would be able to test Hilda’s temper, and of the few, only one could ever make her raise her voice like that. Hiccup peeked from behind a rack of blank shields and beheld the visage of Hilda’s brother, Olaf. Her back faced Hiccup so he had a full view of Olaf’s purple face. He had grown fatter since the last time Hiccup saw him and balding by the looks of his receding hairline. He held the aforementioned sword, free from its scabbard and looking sharp enough it could shave what’s left of the hair on his head with ease. He would know, he sharpened that sword himself just two days ago.

Olaf was seething at the insult, almost frothing at the mouth. “And you must be deaf! I said keep it sharp, so I don’t have to go back here! Do yourself a favour and cut your other ear off since it’s no use to you!”

Now Hiccup was seething from his hiding spot, and from what he could see, so too was Hilda.

“If that’s the case, then learn to sharpen your own sword. I don’t like seeing your face any more than you do mine. You grow fatter and fatter each time I see you, and you take up space more than a yak.” Hilda scoffed. She reached out and threw a whetstone at him, which he fumbled to catch with his sword in the other hand. “There, sharpen it yourself and don’t come back. Next time you step your foot in here I’ll show you just how sharp I sharpen these blades!”

Olaf, never one to stay for the fight, scurried out of the forge, slamming the door behind him and shouted something along the lines of “gods damn you!”. Hilda let out a breath, shaking her head, and turned around and spotted Hiccup, who no longer hid behind the shields. “What are you doing here?”

“A bit disappointing. I would have thought you’d have a go at him, a last hurrah and all. Really would drive the point,” Hiccup said instead of answering her.

She gave a little smirk and shook her head. Hiccup smiled at his success. “You wouldn’t return your brother’s frustrations with a blade, would you?”

Hiccup shrugged. “My brother isn’t Olaf, and Dagur would never shout at me.”

“True, but don’t test his temper either way. I’ve seen your brother rage over smaller things. Now, what are you doing here?” She asked for a second time. “I thought the Frida would have you all to herself today.”

Hiccup’s mood soured. “She did. Still is. I’m in the middle of an errand for her, getting all of this delivered.” He gestured to the basket of concoctions he was burdened with. “Do you know where Edgar is?”

“The boatbuilder?” Hilda said. “Building boats, I presume.”

He gave her a scornful look and she merely chuckled at the reaction that her cheeky retort garnered.

“He’d be tending to his yaks by this hour. He lives right in front of the empty well; you know the one. While you’re at it send this over to him, will you?” She tossed an axe his way and he had to catch it with two arms, cradling it like a baby.

“What? I’m already doing all this delivery work! This basket is heavy enough!” He whined.

Hilda shook her head, a smirk on her lips. “Gain a little more muscle, Hiccup. Now, get.”

He huffed, adjusting his hold on the axe. Before he left, he paused by the door and looked at his mentor. “Do you know where I could find corn cockles, mugworts and yarrows?”

“I’m a blacksmith, not a gardener.” She shrugged and turned to do her work.

Hiccup scowled at that unhelpful reply and stormed away. The empty well mentioned was in the west of the village, not that far a walk from the smithy, which Hiccup was grateful for. He knew better than to run and break the glasses on his back, so he made the walk. When he made it in front of Edgar’s home he was sweating and his back ached, the morning sun bringing its heat. He knocked the pommel of the axe on the door.

The door opened to the sight of the man himself. Edgar was old, hitting his sixties, but he still had a head full of bright carrot hued hair and a glorious beard. His life, like most Berserkers, could be told through the many braids that adorned him. Braids that told his achievements in life and his victories in battle, Hiccup couldn’t help but stare at them.

“Aye, Wha’s this? The runt come knockin’ at my door?” He seemed to mutter to himself, either not knowing Hiccup could hear him or he just didn’t care. It didn’t stop Hiccup from wanting to drop the axe on his foot. “Wha’ is it, eh? Got me some business to do, can’t be wasting my time wit’ you.”

The small Viking seethed and held out the axe. “I have things to deliver for you,” he said through gritted teeth.

Edgar seemed surprised but took the axe and then the jar when Hiccup presented it. “Oh, very good. These are for me bones, ye know. Can’t herd yaks or build boats wit’ aching bones like these.” He gestured to his knobby knuckles. Hiccup noted that he was missing two fingers on his right hand and cringed back. “No, no, you surely can’t” He muttered to himself, mercifully pulling his hands back and shut the door on Hiccup’s face. The action was so abrupt that Hiccup just stood there, trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Why do old people keep closing the doors on me?” He asked aloud in disbelief.

He continued on his errand. There were many who were quick to take their doses and scurry back into their homes, and others were more polite- well, as polite as a Viking could get- and would nod in acknowledgement. The rudeness soured Hiccup’s already bad mood. It was like they forgot that he was the chief’s son and treat him like the lowly errand boy he was forced to play. Not like their attitude towards him were any better before, but he’d rather be politely ignored than face their upturned noses and sneers.

At least there was only one last jar left, and with plenty of light to spare. Hiccup sighed with relief as he pulled the last concoction, completely releasing him from his burden. He suddenly stopped as he read the tag. _Hákon_. Nothing else. Not that it was a big of an issue to figure out who it was, there was only one Hákon in the tribe after all. No, the issue came from the man himself.

That old bat must be crazy if she thought Hiccup would go searching for Hákon the Inhumane. He had half a mind to just throw the damn jar and be done with the day. But Frida’s threat of poisoning seemed to shake him from his doubts. The man’s house wasn’t any different from the rest of the tribe’s, no severed heads on his door or eyeballs hanging on his windows like he heard from the older children. Perhaps that’s what made it scarier, the fact that you could just blindly knock on it thinking it was just like any other house and have his imposing figure looming over you once the door swings open. Then he’d sweep you away and cut you up in his house of horrors.

Hiccup shivered.

He stood far from the man’s home, but still within view. He concluded that the best course of action was to leave the jar on front of the door and turn tail and run. Yeah, that’s a great idea. He cautiously approached the front door, checking for any sign of the man before placing the jar in front of the door.

He paused.

What if he doesn’t know it’s there? Perhaps he should knock. Maybe he wasn’t home? Then again knocking would be pointless. Wouldn’t hurt though, then at least he tried. He breathed out to calm himself and raised a fist, tightening his muscles to prepare to bolt. _Knock and run. That’s all there is to it. Knock and run_.

The door swung open as his hand was poised to knock. He froze.

Hákon stood before him, red-rimmed eyes from behind his face-covering helmet glared him down. Hiccup felt his heart stutter and the urge to flee was no match for the fear that froze him solid. It was his nightmares coming true. The giant flicked his eyes to the jar still in Hiccup’s hand then pinned back to him.

He was shaking in his boots as he held out the jar. “F-From Fri-” He coughed as his voice cracked. “From Frida.” He tried again, no less terrified sounding but steadier.

Hákon took the jar, his hand completely dwarfing Hiccup’s, and the jar near disappeared in his hands. He didn’t close the door, to Hiccup’s horror, and merely stared. _He could crush my head with his bare hands_, was Hiccup’s terrified passing thought.

But the man did none of that and instead grunted something that sounded like a ‘thank you’ from behind his steel cover and closed the door. Hiccup bolted before the door fully closed. His feet took him to his home, where he slammed the door open so suddenly that it nearly flew from its hinges. His mother, carrying a basin, screamed in fright and dropped what she was carrying, water and soaked clothes spilling to the floor.

“Hiccup!”

“I’m sorry!” Hiccup yelped, heart still racing.

His mother shot him a severe look and he was quick to help her pick up the laundry.

“What do you mean with all that racket?” She was still annoyed as she watched him.

“I-I-uh-uhm…” He stuttered for something to say, knowing she wouldn’t be impressed with him if she knew the truth. “Do you know where I can find corn cobbles, mugwings and yowlers?”

She eyed him with a weird look. “You wouldn’t happen to mean corn cockles, mugworts and yarrows, would you?”

Hiccup flushed at his mistake. “That’s what I said.”

His mother hummed and picked up the basin. “What do you need them for?”

“An errand.”

“I see.” She paused. “Well, I’ve a jar of dried corn cockles left on the shelf, I suppose you could take that. As for the rest, I’m afraid you’ll have to root through the forest for them. Don’t worry they’ll be easy to find.”

“Can’t you come and help me?” He couldn’t help but whine.

“Not unless you want to wash everyone’s dirty clothes,” was her answer. Hiccup frowned in distaste at the chore and she gave him an ‘I thought so’ look before walking out the back door.

Hiccup sighed morosely. He had picked up the jar of the mentioned plants when he realized that while he knew where to find those blasted weeds, he had no clue what they looked like. He could ask his mother, of course, but he could tell that she wasn’t in a tolerating mood. _Maybe the meeting didn’t go too well_, he thought.

He trudged up to his room and rummaged for a dagger in case he encountered something unsavoury in the forest. That snake from the last blót wandered into his thoughts and made him shiver. He found one under his bed and fastened it to his belt when something red peeking from underneath his pillow caught his eye.

He pulled out the red-covered book that his mother had given him. He had already devoured the script dedicated to killing dragons, in fact he had read it thrice before he decided to browse through the rest of the book. There was a section that was written like a diary by one Sindri the Unlucky, where he wrote his life, plagued with misfortune and misery; and another about… _Ah!_ Now he remembered why mugworts sounded familiar.

Hiccup flicked the ancient sheets of parchment until he came upon the desired page. _Plant Husbandry, Runa Gildasdottir writes this with reluctance because her mother told her to_. He chuckled as he did the first time he read it. He turned the pages and gave a small cheer as he found the page he was looking for.

It was just a small footnote along with a drawing as an ingredient to a sort of numbing concoctions. It read:_ ‘A bitter weed that smell of sage and grows red-brown flowers [do not eat]. Has sedative effects; used mostly for women’s blood moon pains. Be wary, large doses cause euphoria and severe hallucinations.’_

Hiccup tucked the book under his hand and hurried downstairs. He ran to the forest, hoping to gather everything while there was still light, making sure the village was still within sights. He began his hunt, keeping his head down to eye the weeds on his feet and quickly regretting it when he nearly ran headfirst to a tree. The yarrows were easier to find with its white blooms like a beacon amongst the greenery. He pulled handfuls into the basket before continuing his search for the mugworts.

He damn near sniffed every weed on the forest floor looking for that mentioned sage smell when he realized it was already late afternoon. Hiccup shifted through the book hoping for anything else that mentioned the weed, but Runa’s section of the book was short, much shorter than the rest of what he had read. He didn’t find it hard to believe, she didn’t seem enthused to write in the book anyway, but it didn’t stop him from getting frustrated.

“At this rate, I’d rather the wolves take me now than get poisoned by that witch,” Hiccup groaned, rubbing his forehead.

A yowl echoed from the distance and Hiccup froze. “Oh gods, _I was kidding_.”

He wearily scanned his surroundings, then to the deeper forest. Death by wild animals or death by witch’s poison?… The answer was clear and Hiccup trudged deeper into the forest to look for that wretched weed. The gods seemed to take pity on him as he found the weed not long after, invading a growth of heathers.

Getting anxious by the darkening sky, Hiccup pulled handfuls of the weed into the basket, not caring that he also picked the flowers. Frida can make herself busy separating those, Hiccup won’t spend another minute in the blasted forest. His quick feet dodged the upturned roots and sped past the knee tickling weeds.

He slowed as he neared the edge of the forest to the village, hearing voices. He crept behind a tree and heard the sound of laughter, taunting and cruel. It made Hiccup’s blood boil as he recognized them.

“-not so special, are ye, _Dainty_?” sneered Ansson.

Hiccup peered around the tree and found Ansson, Stuf and Fiske surrounding Dagur. They had cornered him behind a hut, its shadow hiding them from the villagers’ eyes. No chance for anyone to witness the treatment against the chief’s heir.

“No, yer nothin’ but a cheater. You didn’t hit all those targets, you got someone else to do it! Thowing around yer name gets everyone down on their knees and kissin yer boots, ey?” Ansson loomed over Dagur, getting close. “They’d praise you just for cleaning yer arse.”

Dagur said nothing and it only made Hiccup angrier.

Ansson didn’t take to Dagur’s silence that well either. He shoved his shoulders roughly, making him stumble back. “Too good to speak, now? Got someone else to speak for ya?”

“Must be his little runt brother. The little rat can’t shut his mouth, that one,” snickered Fiske.

“Ain’t that pathetic? He gotta have his runt come and do all the protecting,” Stuf laughed.

When that didn’t bring a rise out of him, Ansson suddenly lurched forward and grabbed hold of the collar of his shirt. Hiccup’s heart leapt to his throat and he had the dagger clutched in his hands.

“Yer right there in the bottom with yer brother, Dainty, lower than yak’s shit. Both of ya are a disgrace to the tribe,” he spat. “It’s time you ought to know what we do to disgraces like you.” Ansson grinned and raised his fist. It was then that Dagur began to struggle in earnest and Stuf and Fiske held him down.

A battle cry escaped from Hiccup’s lips as he charged towards them, legs moving before he could even comprehend that he had come out of hiding. So surprised they were to see him that he managed to tackle down Fiske and plunge the dagger on the flesh of his thigh. It’s like his senses became clearer, his sight sharper, his nose taking in the scent of blood and the sound of Fiske’s howl of pain rang in his head, louder than a Thunderdrum’s roar.

A boot struck his temple, then his side, and he rolled away from Fiske; his iron grip on the dagger never leaving as it was ripped away from Stuf’s flesh.

“My leg! _My leg!_”

“Oh gods!”

Hiccup bared his teeth when Ansson’s blazing eyes found his, and when he made towards him, Hiccup swing the blood-stained dagger his way. Drops of blood landed on Ansson’s tunic and he jumped back, looking afraid at the dagger-wielding runt before him.

“Ansson! Ansson, he’s bleeding!” Stuf’s cry seemed to snap everybody out of their stupor and they looked at the pale and bleeding boy on the ground. 

The realization of what he had done poured down on Hiccup, like a gentle trickle, yet he didn’t find it in himself to care, not when he felt such delight seeing Ansson pale and lose his bravado. He was pulled harshly from the back of his collar, nearly choking him, and he stumbled to a run as he was quickly pulled away from the scene. His brother, for it couldn’t have been anyone else, pulled him beside a barn, where its shadow lay, near a well.

Hiccup could tell his brother was in a state of hysteria, muttering to himself as he pulled water from the well. He looked down to his hands in the meantime; they were stained with specks of blood, while the dagger was stained near the hilt and still dripping. Almost nonchalantly, he thought to himself that the image wasn’t unlike the times he used to help his mother skin and gut the goats for dinner.

His hands were plunged into a bucket of water; his brother gripped his wrist tight until he let go of the blade and let it sink to the bottom of the bucket. He hissed in pain when his brother didn’t relinquish his grip and began to scrub his hands with a rag aggressively.

“Dagur-” His whine was cut off as his brother’s blazing eyes met his. Hiccup shut his mouth. Dagur continued to rid his hands of the blood.

The silence didn’t last long in the face of Hiccup’s indignation, knowing Dagur was not pleased with him. “He got what was coming to him. I’m not sorry.”

His brother glowered and rung the rag. When he didn’t speak, it sparked Hiccup’s anger and he tore his wrists away from Dagur’s grip.

“Why did you just take it? From _them_ of all people! Why do you keep running away from them? They’re _nothing!_” Hiccup didn’t care if he was being too loud. “You could take them down so easily! If dad knew-”

Dagur lunged and gripped the collar of his tunic, cutting him off as he lifted him, his boots dangling. “Shut up! Shut up! Don’t tell me what to do! I had it under control, I didn’t need you barging in!” He shook him as he vented.

Hiccup was stunned as Dagur screamed at him; he was frozen at the face of his anger. Anger that had never before been directed at him until now. He was dropped unceremoniously, the basket’s contents spilling from behind him, and Hiccup stayed on the ground as Dagur paced, chanting “I didn’t need your help, I didn’t need your help,” like it was a prayer.

He hung his head, throat sore as he tried to hold his tears back. It wasn’t fair. Why was Dagur angry at _him_? He stood up for him. He stabbed his bullies for him! He spilled blood for _him_.

But he didn’t scream any of those things out, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn’t. Something ugly had lodged itself in his throat and blocked all his words. Instead, he kept his head between his knees, counting the blood splatters on his tunic. Before he could help it, a different type of stain joined in his tunic.

After a moment, Dagur grew quiet and Hiccup let his hands be taken and his sleeves be cleaned. He stayed still, cheeks wet, even when Dagur was finished and began to pick up the basket and weeds behind him; even when he felt him sit beside him, Hiccup didn’t move. His tears have stopped, and his cheeks were sticky as its trails dried. 

When the silence stretched, he heard him sigh, and his head was firmly pulled to a chest and didn’t let go. When he remained still his brother sighed again, this time exasperated, and tugged him closer, patting his head.

“You’re such an idiot,” Dagur said.

“No! You-” he sniffed, then paused, remembering he was still angry at him and huffed.

“Of all the brothers across the nine realms, I’m stuck with a moody, reckless, stubborn brat of a brother.” Dagur continued as if he didn’t speak, though he was grinning. “Doesn’t do as he’s told, butts his nose where it doesn’t belong, and can’t shut his noise hole when it ought to be shut.” Fingers pinched his bottom lip and Hiccup snapped his teeth at the invasive digits.

“He bites like a dog too.”

Hiccup jabbed an elbow to his side. His anger was steadily being soothed by the gentle caresses and his brother’s attempts to lighten the mood.

“Guess I’m lucky like that.”

Hiccup groaned; his face flushed for a different reason now as he curled to his side. His head was pulled back and before he could protest a wet cloth cleaned his face, the cool rag did wonders to soothe his flaming cheeks. He wondered if he could ever stay mad at his brother, it seemed like an impossible feat now that he was pacified.

“I’m not sorry,” he muttered. “They deserved it.”

Dagur’s hand stopped its movements and just rested on his head. Hiccup knew his thoughts were getting the best of him as he stared at nothing and the corner of his lips began to twitch as if he was holding from talking to himself as he was prone to do. He felt his brother’s arms clutch him a bit tighter.

“You’re such an ugly crier.”

It said something about him that he didn’t think twice to kick his brother in the shin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about that, ay? We got the volva of the tribe, some bratty hiccup and dagur straight up snapped, somethin definitely stressing him out 🤔 Not that I'd know, of course not.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the kudos and comments. They never fail to make my day and motivate me. I suppose I'd count this as my April Fool's prank, so, haha you thought I wouldn't update but i did 🤡🙃  
_
> 
> This work is un-beta'd, any mistakes concerning spelling, grammar etc. are completely my fault.


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